My Mother’s Story, My Mirror

On caregiving, missed diagnoses, and the birth of Styled Soul

There are parts of my story I carry in silence — not because they are secrets, but because they’re sacred.

My mother was my everything. Her laughter filled a room, her faith steadied ours, and her care was unwavering. But when she got sick, I realized just how fragile our healthcare system can be, especially for those who show up as uninsured, visitors, immigrants, international students, Black women, all layered identities that often go unseen.

She came to Canada to help me, a new mother navigating life with two young children. What none of us expected was how quickly roles would shift. She started losing weight, became easily tired, and would wince from an ache that never fully went away. She tried to ignore it, we all did. But the signs only got worse.

When we sought help, the answers didn’t come.

First, it was indigestion. Then, back pain. Later, a suggestion that she “just needed to eat and move more.” Each time, we were sent home with a shrug, or a prescription that barely touched the surface. No scans. No follow-ups. No urgency.

Eventually, the truth arrived, too late, and all at once. It was cancer. Aggressive. And by the time we had a name for what was wrong, the fight had already begun at a disadvantage.

I became her caregiver overnight. Appointments, medications, translated instructions, late-night prayers, and the heavy emotional labour of hiding my fear so she wouldn’t see me break.
 There’s no manual for watching the strongest woman you know fade in front of you.

But in that grief, I also witnessed her grace. Even in pain, she whispered affirmations over my boys, reminding me to rest and eat. She was still being a mother, still giving, even as she slipped away.

Her story isn’t just hers. It’s mine. It’s our story.
 It’s the story of so many immigrant families, of missed diagnoses, of racialized pain dismissed, of language barriers and silent suffering, of systems that do not bend for us, for our mothers.

Styled Soul was born from that ache.

I needed somewhere to place my grief. Somewhere to say: Our stories matter.
 That the way we love, care, endure, and survive, deserves light. Styled Soul became a space to hold that light. For my mother. For me. For us.

When you see our portraits, hear our stories, read our journals, know that this is sacred work. A mirror. A tribute.

Because her story lives in every word I write.
 And in every woman I now walk alongside.

This journal post is dedicated to my mother, whose love, strength, and grace are the blueprint of Styled Soul. Through her, I learned the courage it takes to keep showing up!