Rachel O’Hagan | @rockwithrach
When I was asked to write this article, I realized how often I suppress parts of myself in order to share only what feels acceptable. Sometimes I write as a caregiver. Other times I write as a mother, an advocate, or a professional. But rarely do I feel I can write simply as Rachel.
Maybe these hats can’t always exist together, but what I long for is to shine a light on all of me — not just the roles I play. The truth is, the only place I can really take off all the hats is with my friends. With them, I don’t have to perform or protect. I can show up whole. That’s what makes friendship medicine.
When my son was diagnosed with a rare disease, doctors explained the symptoms and test results. They outlined treatment options. But no one told me how to live with the ache of it. No one explained how to carry the weight of uncertainty while still showing up as a parent, partner, and person.
I quickly learned that medicine isn’t always found in hospitals or prescriptions. Sometimes it’s found in human connection, in the people who walk with you into the storm and remind you that you’re not alone.
What makes rare disease especially heavy is that life doesn’t pause for it. Even as I faced medical trauma in the present — gene therapy trials, long hospital stays, and equipment I barely understood — I was still dealing with everyday realities: bills, caregiving for my other children, and navigating systems that too often failed us. On top of that, past traumas I hadn’t dealt with rose to the surface, demanding space in my body that I didn’t think I had.
It felt like a storm from every direction — past, present, and future fears colliding. In those moments, the urge to retreat was strong. I wanted to hide. But when you’re advocating for your children, retreating isn’t an option. Advocacy requires showing up fully, in whatever state you’re in. And grounding yourself enough to do that is almost impossible when you feel like you’re unravelling.
That’s why friendships — the kind that allow you to be your whole self — are sacred.
I’ve found medicine in friends who remind me of my light when I can’t see it. Some are old friends who know the Rachel I used to be, who mirror back strengths I’ve always carried. Others are new friends who met me in the dark and still saw my worth. Both are mirrors — reflections of my truth when I’ve forgotten it.
Their medicine has come in many forms:
- A hospital custodian who lingered to share her story, then asked if she could hug me. That hug, in a sterile room, broke open my loneliness.
- A spa owner who quietly opened early so I could be cared for while still safely caring for my kids in isolation, giving me a space to breathe and be held. Her long hug carried me through days when I thought I would collapse.
- A friend who quietly donated to our family, then offered his cottage in the middle of nowhere. There, without cell service, I napped for the first time in years.
- My sister, who drove hours to sit with me, knowing her presence was enough.
- My childhood best friend, who doesn’t wait for me to ask for help — she just shows up, dropping meals and toys at the door like she’s done since we were kids.
- My neighbour, who is also a caregiver, ensures we take a kid-free break together each month. It’s our collective breath of fresh air and exactly what I need. She gives herself permission to let go, and so can I.
These moments were not small. They were medicine. They steadied me when I couldn’t steady myself.
Friendship has also taught me about boundaries. Not everyone in our lives is medicine, and that’s okay. Some connections teach us where our boundaries need to be, while others remind us of our strength. I’ve learned that I don’t have to beg for love or explain myself to those who cannot hold my full story.
The friends who are medicine are the ones who see even the fractured parts of me and reflect them back not as flaws, but as part of my strength. They’re the ones who can handle my truth, and by doing so, help me handle it too.
Looking back, I see that friendship hasn’t just carried me through rare disease, caregiving, and advocacy. It has also carried me through myself — through the parts of me that wanted to retreat, the parts of me still aching from old wounds, and the parts of me I thought were too heavy for anyone else to hold.
Friends have been my anchors and my mirrors. They’ve shown me that my brokenness and my beauty can exist together, that my hats can come off, and that I’m more than any role I play.
If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s this: friendship is not extra. It’s essential. It’s how we survive, how we heal, and how we come back to ourselves. If I can be a friend to you today, let it be this reminder — the light you carry is still there. Choose to be medicine, or seek it for yourself. Take off the hats when you can, and shine.
With World Mental Health Day approaching on October 10, let this be your reminder to reach out to a friend, neighbour, or caregiver — sometimes the most powerful medicine is knowing we’re not alone. If this piece resonates, consider supporting organizations that uplift caregivers across Ontario, such as the Young Caregivers Association and the Ontario Caregiver Organization, or simply share their resources within your community.
