The Subjectivity of Privilege

I am yet to come across a word more profoundly subjective than privilege. What is normal for you may be someone else’s wildest dream. Though it is a phrase we hear so often and easily brush aside, I wonder if we ever truly look into the depths of the meaning it holds. Last week, my home was full of people. My husband’s parents and sister were visiting. There was a full dinner table, laughter, joy, and even a bit of confrontation—but overall, there was communication. Meanwhile, in a quiet room down the hall, lay my mother. I haven’t had a real conversation with her in five years. Even before the silence took over, she usually mistook me for her sister. Early-onset Alzheimer’s disease does that to you. I don’t know if my husband realizes the immense privilege of his family’s casual chatter, or if he considers it just another ordinary piece of life. I don’t speak to him about it much, either.

Last Sunday, the quiet was shattered when my mother was hospitalized with a seizure, suspected to be viral meningitis. Armed with a rock-solid ICU team, we narrowed down our differential diagnosis and had a plan ready within six hours. In that same brief window, I was able to mobilize resources and set up an intensive care unit right inside our home, bringing her back to the comfort of her own bed. To many, this whirlwind would be pure trauma. For me, it was privilege. That afternoon, as I dozed by her side in the recliner, jazz hummed softly in the background and a scented candle filled the room with the fragrance of peace. When I opened my eyes, I saw my mother emanating a glow of pure serenity. Fast asleep with her BPAP on, she looked entirely comfortable. That, for me, was the definition of privilege: to be able to afford proper medical care for myself and for her; to have a brilliant team of doctors by our side; and perhaps most importantly, to possess the clarity to know what to expect, and the strength to learn what to live with. Yes, she no longer talks to me. But on every infusion day, I go back to her room, gently taking her hand and placing it on my head. That is priceless.

What can I say about my mother? My earliest memories of her are pinned to a beautiful woman in pretty floral chiffon sarees, her hair tied loosely in a bun as she juggled one chore after another. Our house was always a revolving door of visitors, mostly relatives, and my mother would relentlessly play the role of the smiling host. Or was she playing a role at all? Was this warmth just something that came naturally to her? Even now, I don’t know the answer. She never preached. She never told me how to live. She simply existed as herself, and I watched. Through her, I learned that not all arguments are worth your time, and not all battles are meant to be fought. I observed her silence—a loud, powerful silence that taught me to build life quietly. Life is a marathon, not a hundred-meter dash, and eventually, your only job is to be proud of what you made of it. I observed her kindness and realized that nothing yields deeper happiness than being kind to a stranger. I observed her gratitude and learned that being thankful to the people around you makes the heavy lifting of life so much easier. She never criticized anyone, anchoring my own fierce belief that the world is rarely split into black and white, but rather thrives in the grey zones.
Then, when she was only in her fifties, I started to see her struggle. Doors were left wide open, drawers were left in disarray. I watched my mother look for things she couldn’t find, eventually forgetting what she was even looking for in the first place. Yet, I saw her embrace even this terrifying shift with an effortless dignity and grace. From that, I learned that nothing in this world is worth surrendering your pride and dignity for. Twenty years have passed since those early signs. Last night , I tucked her into bed. She tried to speak but could not articulate the words; Alzheimer’s steals that from you, too. Sitting by her bedside, watching her struggle to communicate what was troubling her, I realized I have never felt closer to her than in that exact moment. Even today, stripped of her language, she has the ability to teach me a life lesson. Tonight I learned how futile words can be, and how meaningless it is to try and tell someone you are hurting when a soul connection exists. The strongest communications ever made are almost always silent.
Again, this scenario might be a trauma for many. I look at it as a privilege. How many of us get to experience a connection this profound with our parents? Privilege is fundamentally subjective because its value is entirely defined by the context of what a person lacks or fears losing. It is an internal metric of safety rather than an external status symbol. Because human suffering and vulnerability take so many different forms, what looks like an ordinary, baseline existence to one person can feel like an extraordinary, hard-won sanctuary to another. Ultimately, privilege is in the eye of the beholder, shifting its shape to become whatever brings peace, comfort, or a moment of healing in the middle of a storm.

Pro Tip :
Chronic stress triggers systemic inflammation and immune dysregulation that accelerates the progression of autoimmune diseases and Alzheimer’s.
practicing daily mindfulness-based stress reduction (MBSR) can actively lower cortisol and dampen this pro-inflammatory activity.

• ShareCopied to clipboard