Finding Joy in the Caregiver Journey

There’s something about flipping the calendar to a new year that stirs up all kinds of feelings—some hope, yes, but also a strange mix of grief, exhaustion, and a lingering ache for the life you used to imagine. As I was writing my end of the year summary last night, I found myself writing: “This life right now, isn’t what I planned – but it is the one that I have been given. I’m learning how to love it – right here as it is.” The past almost seven years, I’ve railed against it – a lot! One thing I found in the past year – is some love for the life I’ve been building,

Caregiving was never on the vision board. It’s not the life we were planning when we were filling Pinterest boards with vacation ideas or thinking about what retirement might look like one day. But here we are, building a life out of long days, small victories, and the kind of exhaustion that lives in your bones – and trying to smile through it all.

It’s not a season you can schedule. It doesn’t come with predictable timelines or even the decency to stay consistent for more than a week. Some days you feel like you’re managing, and other days you’re hanging on by your last nerve while trying to remember what it felt like to have uninterrupted thoughts.

And here’s the part nobody talks about: there’s grief for your person, but there’s also grief for yourself. For the version of you that used to go out, make plans, dream big, or even just sleep through the night without wondering if a fall or a crisis was coming. It’s not selfish to miss that person. It’s human. Go easy on yourself.

But while we’re here—and we are here—it’s worth asking: what can we reclaim?

You might not be able to make big plans. You might not be able to book the trip or start the business or join the gym right now. But that doesn’t mean you stop dreaming altogether. You just start dreaming differently. It keeps hope alive – and nourished.

Start a Hope List. Not a to-do list. Not a checklist. A hope list.
A notebook or a journal or a file on your phone where you write down every little thing that still sparks something in you.

Things you want to try. Places you want to see. People you want to reconnect with. Things you want to learn, or build, or just savor once you have the bandwidth again. Restaurants you want to go to.

Not “someday when life is perfect,” but someday when life gives you a little room to breathe again. Because that time will come.

You can also start small now. A free online course. A new Bible study. A craft project. Reading a few pages of that book you’ve started and stopped fifteen times. These things aren’t silly—they’re sacred. They keep your spark alive. They remind you that you still exist outside the caregiving. You have to hold on to that.

And yes, you’re still going to have days when you want to scream. Or cry. Or crawl into a blanket fort and eat your feelings. (Been there. A lot – molasses cookies are my favorite.) But that’s not the whole story. The hard moments are real, but they don’t get to have the final word.

Two things can be true at once.

You can be mad, and still hopeful.
You can be exhausted, and still dreaming.
You can feel like you’re falling apart, and still quietly building a future no one can see yet.

This isn’t what you planned.
But it’s still your life.
And maybe, just maybe, it’s holding space for something beautiful down the road. In fact, I’m sure of it. So welcome 2026 with hope and expection and not a life sentence. There is room for happiness in this season of life.

Caregiver Hack of the Week:

“Start a Hope Ledger”

When the days blur together and it feels like your whole life has been absorbed by appointments, meds, and monitoring—start a simple Hope Ledger.

Use a notebook, the notes app on your phone, or a physical jar with scraps of paper. Each day, record one thing that gives you hope, reminds you of who you are, or whispers that you’re still in there somewhere:

• A moment of laughter between you and your loved one.
• A dream you still want to chase.
• A prayer you whispered.
• A kindness someone showed you.
• A reminder that this is not forever.

Caregiving can feel like you’re vanishing—but this small daily ritual helps you stay tethered to yourself, your faith, and your future. You are not lost. You are becoming—in the hardest, most beautiful way.

See you at the next stop. The year is just beginning, and it is the perfect time to nourish hope.