Raw, real-life leadership journey: Navigating mom’s stroke

The past two weeks have been unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. It’s like being thrust into a new VP of Operations role without any training or roadmap, just sheer responsibility and the need to adapt fast.

Mom’s condition seems to zigzag wildly, like a faulty software update that causes endless instability. In just nine days, she’s had three mental breakdowns. It’s painful to watch her physically grow stronger, even as her mind struggles to keep up. Her resilience is inspiring and heartbreaking, and each day, I wonder how to meet her where she’s at.

Last Thursday was one of the hardest days.

It began at 4 a.m. with a jolt from my Apple Watch—Mom was calling, panicked and distraught, convinced we had trapped her in the hospital. I felt like a knife had pierced my chest. It was her delirium speaking, and I knew I couldn’t take it personally, but it was gut-wrenching all the same. I took a deep breath and tried to stay calm, gently coaxing her back to bed. Hanging up and leaving her alone was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do. After that, sleep was out of the question; I got up at 6:00 a.m. and tried to distract myself with a few work messages.

By 8:30 a.m., she had another episode, accidentally placing a group call to our family in Hong Kong, her cries for help amplified by the distance. Her tears cut through me. I was at my breaking point, yet I had to keep pushing forward. My uncle, who lives nearby, stepped in to be with her at the hospital while I tried to gather myself. The helplessness and exhaustion were overwhelming.

Then my uncle called, and I spoke with her on-site doctor. It felt like dealing with a call center—no continuity, each doctor unfamiliar with her recent crises. I had to start from scratch, explaining her recent episodes, advocating for her needs, and relying on my detailed notes and growing knowledge of her neurological conditions.

The doctor urged patience, saying her episodes were “normal,” but I resisted. This isn’t normal, I thought. My mother is in mental distress at night; this needs addressing now. Finally, we agreed to prioritize her sleep as our first objective.

In that moment, I realized I needed a different approach that would draw on my two decades in operations, handling setbacks and crisis management. I sketched out a mental framework to guide Mom’s care like a strategic plan:

1. Stabilize her sleep cycle.
2. Support her vision so she can regain independence with her iPhone.
3. Alleviate her confusion and delirium.

Even then, I felt depleted. But I knew I needed to find strength somewhere, so I went to the gym, forcing myself through pull-ups and bench presses. Afterwards, I hit the sauna. There, I met Rajko, a German ex-martech guy, who shared his journey of transformation, and to my surprise, we’d both attended the same coaching school. He even offered to connect me with Vancouver General Hospital (VGH) specialists who might help Mom. Another person, Michael, in the sauna was also facing his mother’s lung cancer treatment. The chance encounters brought a surge of energy and a reminder that I wasn’t alone in this.

Returning to the hospital, I found more relatives there. It felt like a breakthrough: a group of “aunties” talked to Mom in Cantonese, showing her a blend of tough love and compassion. She finally began to understand that we—and the hospital staff—were on her side.

We adjusted her medication and set a sleep plan; that night, she finally rested well.

It struck me how much this journey resembled running a complex customer experience operation. This time, though, my team consisted of doctors, nurses, therapists, and family members, each playing a role in helping Mom regain her independence. Every day felt like a reorganization of goals, strategies, and responsibilities.

Caring for her has sometimes made me feel invisible, even taken for granted.

But my therapist’s words echo in my mind: Don’t take her words personally. Meet her where she is, not where you want her to be.

That advice has grounded me, helping me keep my emotional balance through her highs and lows.

By the next few days, with 10 hours of sleep, her progress was astonishing. With help from her occupational therapist, she learned to adapt her vision, even using her iPhone independently to send me a long message. I almost couldn’t believe it was from her. They even took away her walker; she no longer needed it. From being the patient no one could calm, Mom had become one of the more independent stroke patients on her floor.

Don't give up hope!

Today is Day 26. Each day brings fresh challenges and discoveries. Week over week, Mom has shown remarkable growth.

This journey has become an unexpected, real-world training ground for leadership. As in my professional life, where I strive to enhance customer experiences, I’m now leading a “patient experience organization.” My operational skills—setting priorities, creating structure, and fostering collaboration—have helped me build an environment where Mom’s progress, however incremental, is celebrated.

I’m in the storm, but I’m still swimming. And with every stroke, I’m learning to lead in ways I never imagined.

I still cry, but usually in private, in front of Mom’s bodhisattva.

P.S. Thank you to everyone who has reached out, sent messages, and visited. The first part of this song really resonated with me and my advice to my mom.