When You’re in Survival Mode and Someone Asks You to Be More

When Friendship Feels Like A Transaction

The calendar does not lie.

26th January – EMG. Needles pushed into my child’s muscles. Machines measuring what her body can no longer do.

27th January – MRI head and whole spine under general anaesthetic (GA). Watching Maya wheeled away again. It never, ever gets easier!!! 😭

6th February – Bone marrow aspirates and trephine. Under GA. More samples. More waiting. More unknowns.

10th February – MIBG contrast dye injection. For 48 hours, my sassy little girl was radioactive “glow in the dark” ☢️

11th February – MIBG scan. Under GA. Another donut-shaped machine. Another breath held.

15th February – Abdominal ultrasound. Maya calls this “jelly in the belly”

This warrior girl is going through more than most adults will endure in a lifetime. And as parents, watching your child suffer like this feels like a living hell. There is no pause button. No intermission. No stepping outside for air.

And yet — she still laughs.

Despite tears every single day. Despite ICANS. Despite HLH. Despite everything her little body has endured since CAR-T therapy turned our world upside down, again.

The smallest things make her giggle. And when Maya laughs, it fills the hospital room. It reminds us she is still here. Still fighting. Still Maya.

But there are moments in life when you realise you are not just tired — you are surviving.

Right now, our world is measured in blood results, scans, transfusions and side effects. ICANS. HLH. CAR-T aftermath. Words I never imagined would become part of my daily vocabulary.

I don’t wake up thinking about social plans or willy-nilly catch up chats with friends.

I wake up thinking about platelet counts.

I don’t check my phone wondering who I haven’t replied to.

I check it waiting for doctors messages, sudden urgent appointments or blood test results.

There are days I don’t brush my teeth until the afternoon. Days I don’t wash my hair. Nights spent in hospital chairs watching Maya breath. Conversations with consultants (day in/day out) instead of conversations with friends. I haven’t even had the luxury of long talks with my own parents because every ounce of energy is consumed by keeping my daughter safe.

And Then the Text Message Came

In the middle of all this, I received a message from a friend telling me they felt unsupported. That the friendship felt one-sided. That they had stepped back.

“I know you’re going through an incredibly difficult time, and I’ve always tried to support you however I can.

But when I reached out recently, I didn’t feel supported at all, and that really hurt.

I’ve stepped back because I felt there wasn’t much space for me in the friendship. I feel like the friendship is one sided and I don't feel supported.”

I read it twice.

Unsupported?

When you are living in crisis mode, you are not operating from a place of emotional surplus! You are rationing energy the way hospitals ration blood products — carefully and only where absolutely necessary.

I always believed that when someone offers help, it comes freely. From the heart. Without a ledger. Without expectation. Because if help is given with the hope of something in return, it ISN’T friendship.

It’s a transaction.

Friendship isn’t a tab waiting to be settled.

This text really saddened me. Of course it did. Especially from someone who has seen our reality up close. But perhaps being ‘unfriended’ was a strange kind of gift. One less emotional weight to carry when my arms are already full. And perhaps serendipity did indeed intervened! Just maybe — that was a gift.

Right now, my capacity belongs to my child.

And if someone cannot understand that survival mode leaves no space for performance, then maybe they were never meant to walk this stretch of the road with us.

Kindness during crisis means lowering expectations. It means loving without scorekeeping. It means understanding that silence is not neglect — it is exhaustion.

If you know someone walking through hell, please don’t ask them to show up better.

Just show up softer.

Anyway, I was meaning to send this reply back but my number is probably blocked too as it keeps saying error. They could be reading this blog.

“Dear _______, I’m really sorry you’ve felt unsupported. That was never my intention.

Right now my days and nights are completely taken up caring for Maya — she can’t do anything independently, and even when she sleeps I’m up multiple times for nappy changes!

I need to say this clearly because I don’t think my reality is landing with you.

I am running on broken sleep. My back and shoulder are in constant pain. I’m on round-the-clock care for Maya, living in constant vigilance and emotional whiplash. On top of that, I’m dealing with mounting unpaid utility bills and red letters coming through the door. My capacity — physically, mentally, emotionally, financially — is extremely limited right now. When you talk at length about your six figures annual salary or moaning about the politics at your workplace, I honestly don’t have the headspace for it. I have tried to listen and accommodate you, even while feeding Maya or giving her a bed bath, putting you on loudspeaker so I can multitask. But when you swear repeatedly or call your colleagues offensive names within Maya’s hearing, that crosses a line for me. Anyone outside of this reality will struggle to understand what my capacity actually is right now. I need conversations that are calm, respectful and mindful of the environment I’m in.

I also notice that visits are often squeezed in between meeting friends in London or attending parties. That makes it hard not to feel like we’re being slotted in around everything else, when this is our entire world right now.

I’m not saying this to attack you. I’m saying it because I need you to understand where I actually am, and what I can and cannot hold.

I fully understand that what you’re expressing is about how YOU feel and that you’re being honest to me. What I’m carrying is about survival and sanity. I might lose my home. I already lost my car. And you would know how that feels, but without the added stress of a seriously sick child to care for 24/7.

So what I’m saying is that I cannot apologise for the reality of my life. My child is fighting cancer. I am seriously skint and I am utterly heartbroken. 💔

I deem you as very intelligent person. You are 100% correct. I don’t have much capacity beyond surviving this, and I know that means I haven’t shown up for you the way I used to. It’s not because I don’t care. I do care still.

I’m just stretched beyond my limits.

If the friendship feels one-sided, it’s only because my world is very very small right now.

With lots of love, Del”

Oh well, they will probably never read this but at least I have processed their text message.

🩷 Please Help Us 💜

If our journey has touched you, please share Maya’s story. Share this blog. Spread awareness.

And if you are able, please consider donating to support Maya’s ongoing care and our fight to give her every chance possible.

Your kindness truly keeps us going.

“Compassion is not a transaction. It is a gift freely given.”

Please share 🫶

Thank-You-All-For-The-Support-And-Unconditional-Love