In bull riding, the ride lasts eight seconds.

Eight. Doesn’t sound like much time, but it’s a lifetime when you’re on the bull.

That’s how long a professional rider has to hang on, stay focused, absorb the jolts, and not get thrown. They have to ride the bull and there is more to it than hanging on for dear life!

Seem familiar?

Because caregiving—especially long-term, family caregiving—feels a lot like being strapped to a 2,000-pound emotional bull. One that bucks every time you start to feel steady. One that never really stops moving.

Strap In. It’s Gonna Be a Ride.

Some mornings, you wake up and think,
“Okay. Today, I’m calm. Today I’ve got this.”

Your morning coffee spills on the freshly folded laundry. The dog throws up under the dining room table. Your mom insists it’s Tuesday, even though you’ve already corrected her three times. While you’re trying to mop the floor, the Wi-Fi goes out, and someone is upset because the TV won’t work. And it’s not even 10:15 AM.

You’re tired, overstimulated, and one snarky comment away from throwing in the towel.

Not because you’re weak—but because this job throws you around.

You ride the highs:

• A good day. A clear conversation.
• A hug out of nowhere.
• A funny joke.

But you also ride the lows:

• The repeating. The wandering. The unfiltered frustration they throw at you when their brain can’t keep up.
• The guilt.
• The resentment for the life you used to have—and the grief for the one you’ll never get back.

It’s Not About Strength. It’s About Staying On.

In rodeo, it’s not about taming the bull. You don’t control it. You survive it.

It’s the same with caregiving.

You can’t out muscle cognitive decline or any type of dementia. It’s progressive. You can’t reason your way out of a failing body. You can’t “love” someone into healing from what time has taken.

What you can do is hold on for the ride.
Re-center between the bucks.
Get back up when you fall.
And learn to breathe through the whiplash. It’s not easy. Any of it.

The Crowd Can’t See the Bruises

The thing about watching a rodeo is—it looks thrilling from the stands.

Just like caregiving looks noble on the outside.

“Oh, you’re such a good daughter. She’s so lucky to have you.”
“I don’t know how you do it.” “She looks so good—you must be doing something right.”

And you smile. Nod. Say thank you. But they don’t see the exhaustion behind your eyes. The gnawing sense that you’ve disappeared into someone else’s life.

They only see the ride—not the bruises it leaves behind.

So What Keeps Us Getting Back On?

Love. Duty. Faith. Those are the simple answers. Because even when we’re mad, drained, or spiraling—we still care.

And that’s what makes this the hardest kind of ride. You’re getting thrown around by something you chose—and it still feels like it’s choosing you over and over again.

Final Thought

If today felt like you got tossed—hard—please know this:

You’re not a bad caregiver for feeling it. You’re not a weak person for wanting your own life back. You’re not selfish for needing to pause the ride – or never ride again.

Before being a caregiver, you are human.

And just like in bull riding, the real bravery isn’t in taming the chaos—it’s in getting back on when you can… and letting yourself rest when you can’t.

Eight seconds at a time.
One breath at a time.
We ride together.

Caregiver Hack of the Week: The Bullpen Timeout

Set a “bullpen” break once a day. That’s the spot where the bull rests before the ride. It’s calm. Controlled. Nobody’s flying through the air in the bullpen.

For you, it could be:

• 15 minutes with noise-canceling headphones and no guilt.
• A moment in your car with your favorite song and no to-do list.
• A mental “bullpen” where you repeat: I’m safe. I’m strong. I can sit here for a minute.

Because you can’t ride all day.