When Muoy Kucan stepped away from the career she had spent years building, she thought she was making a difficult decision.
She could not have known it would change almost every part of her life. Over the years that followed, the Melbourne mother helped care for her mum through advanced dementia, coordinated support across a family of 10 siblings, navigated countless hospital visits and, at times, wondered where her own identity had gone.
“I don’t know who I am any more,” she told Starts at 60.
It is a feeling many carers know only too well.
Muoy was recently named Continence Health Australia’s 2026 Carer of the Year, recognised for more than two decades of caring responsibilities that included supporting both older and younger family members. Yet when she talks about the award, she quickly shifts the spotlight elsewhere.
“It’s just what I do,” she says. “To be recognised is amazing, an absolute honour, but it’s still unbelievable.”
There was no single moment when Muoy became a carer.
Like many Australians, she found herself taking on more responsibilities gradually. A little more support here, a few more appointments there. Fewer hours at work, and more time spent ‘checking in’.
Eventually, she reduced her role in early childhood education from full-time to part-time and then casual work before stepping away altogether.
“I’d studied all my life to work with children. I’d built my career and then realised it was time to focus on Mum and Dad, not on myself,” she explained.
For many carers, the sacrifice is obvious. Income takes a hit while the career progression stalls and, as is often the case, retirement savings often suffer.
The less visible loss can be much harder to explain.
Muoy is the youngest of 10 children. An older sister at the top, eight brothers wedged in between. But Muoy’s the boss.
While a large family helped spread the workload, somebody still had to organise it.
As her mother’s condition worsened, she found herself coordinating a 24-hour care roster, managing communication between siblings and helping steer decisions about her mother’s care.
“I was probably the bossiest,” she says with a laugh.
But behind the humour sat a heavy responsibility, as her mother had become increasingly vulnerable to falls and later, after a broken hip and progression to advanced dementia, round-the-clock care became essential.
“Every day was different,” Muoy recalls. “There were puzzles and activities to keep her engaged. Meals to prepare. Showers. Medication. Comfort. Company. Day in and day out we were with her. We were keeping her fed, changing her, showering her. We did every little thing for her, just like she used to do for us.”
Then comes a pause.
“That’s why I always say dementia is a slow grief.”
Anyone who has watched a loved one disappear gradually, while still physically present, will understand exactly what this little champ means.
One of the more difficult challenges involved incontinence.
It is rarely discussed openly, despite affecting millions of Australians, and for Muoy, the hardest period came early on when her mother was still aware enough to feel embarrassed by accidents but struggled to fully understand what was happening.
“There were odours, there were accidents, there was cleaning up,” she says.
At first, the family relied on products purchased from supermarkets. Later, after seeking specialist advice, they discovered a range of practical solutions they didn’t even know existed.
A referral to a continence nurse proved transformative, Muoy says. The nurse helped identify better products, protective bedding, chair covers and practical ways to manage daily life. For a family already carrying an enormous emotional load, reducing some of the physical burden made a significant difference.
“I could concentrate on her instead of constantly changing bedding and cleaning up. There was already so much work to do,” Muoy said.
The most striking part of Muoy’s story is not the physical work but rather what happened to her sense of self.
At the same time she was caring for her mother, she was also raising a young son and supporting her elderly father, and her days became defined by everybody else’s needs.
“I feel like I’ve lost all my skills working with children,” she says. “I feel like I’ve lost myself as a mother. My son came everywhere with me, he came with me to look after my parents. Sometimes I don’t even know who I am any more.”
Now, following her mother’s death, she is adjusting once again. For years, being a carer shaped every decision she made. Every day had a purpose and a structure.
Suddenly, that chapter has ended.
“It’s become another whole new life,” Muoy said.
One of Muoy’s strongest messages is that carers should not try to carry everything alone: despite the challenges, she speaks warmly about the doctors, nurses, physiotherapists and specialists who supported her family over the years.
Having consistent people around them, and continuity of processes, made an enormous difference. Knowing where to seek help mattered too.
“There’s so much support out there when you know where to find it,” Muoy says.
That lesson took years to learn.
For a long time, many of the challenges her family faced were simply absorbed and dealt with behind closed doors. There were accidents to clean up, difficult conversations to navigate and practical problems that often felt overwhelming. Like many families, they just got on with it.
Part of that, she believes, came down to culture.
Growing up in a Cambodian family, caring for ageing parents was never viewed as a burden or something to discuss publicly. It was simply what families did, the expectation was that loved ones would be looked after at home and private matters would remain private.
“We didn’t want to share the news about Mum’s dementia,” she says. “Everyone thought it was just ageing. We didn’t really want to make that open for everyone to be aware of.”
The same applied to incontinence, a subject many people still struggle to talk about openly. For years, Muoy found herself trying to navigate those challenges quietly, often learning through trial and error while balancing the demands of caring for her mother, supporting her father and raising her young son.
Eventually, however, the family reached a point where silence was no longer helping anyone.
Relatives needed to understand what was happening. Friends needed to understand. Health professionals needed to understand.
And perhaps most importantly, Muoy needed help.
Looking back now, she believes more open conversations around dementia, ageing and continence care are making life easier for families facing similar situations.
“People had to know so they could really help us and encourage us,” she says.
That support came in many forms. Sometimes it was a specialist nurse who could suggest practical solutions. Sometimes it was a doctor who understood the family history, and at times it was simply somebody listening without judgment.
Asked what she would say to another daughter, son or spouse quietly struggling at home, Muoy does not hesitate.
“Don’t give up,” she says. “Even after years of caring, interrupted sleep, hospital visits and emotional exhaustion, I remain very grateful for the time I had.
“I know it’s hard. It’s a really hard time. But they won’t be here forever. They know the difference between family and someone who has only met them briefly. They know your love. I wouldn’t change it for the world.”
Carer of the Year is an annual award run by Continence Health Australia and is open to nominations from November to February each year. The award recognises unpaid carers across Australia whose support, dedication and compassion often go unseen. Nominations are received from around the country, highlighting stories of commitment, sacrifice and care for loved ones. More information, including past recipients, is available through Continence Health Australia.
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