The Silver Haired ChooChoo

Hair on Fire, Sacred Ground, and a Pocketful of Gummy Bears

February 7, 2026

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I haven’t written in a bit, and I owe you the truth.

It’s not because I ran out of stories. It’s because I got mired in the muck—same as each of you. Sometimes I have to step back and manage my own brain before I can put words on a page that are worth reading. Caregiving has a way of swallowing your bandwidth whole. One minute you’re fine-ish, and the next you’re standing in the kitchen trying to remember if you fed the dog, took your vitamins, or brushed your teeth… and honestly, it could be none of the above.

You know the drill. The lost identity. The constant low-grade worry. Trying to find balance between cooking, cleaning, keeping someone safe, keeping yourself sane, and figuring out how to squeeze out even fifteen minutes where you can just… live. And then the rare time you do grab a little oxygen for yourself, there’s judgment.

Yes. The Karens are alive and well! They’re out there in the wild. They don’t know your situation (and they probably have their own), but they sure do have opinions about it and your life and what you “should” be doing. Trust me, when I say, that when we get to Heaven God is going to be talking to them about them, not about us. Let the self righteousness, high and mighty, roll off your back like water off a duck. Most of the time, I can, but recently, I haven’t been able to let it go so easily.

I’ll admit it—I let it get to me. I started wondering if what I write even makes a difference. If anyone really reads these little dispatches from the caregiving trenches, or if I’m just yelling into the void with spellcheck.

Then I talk to many of you. I hear your stories. I see the “me too” and the “I thought I was the only one” and the “thank you for saying it out loud.” And just like that, I remember why this matters.

So… it’s time to saddle up and ride again.

There are literally millions of us doing this work—quietly, daily, relentlessly—trying to figure out a path that doesn’t come with a map. And we’re all saying versions of the same sentence:

This is hard.

Not “cute hard.” Not “busy season hard.” This is soul-sucking, identity-blurring, never-clock-out hard. And also… somehow… it’s blessed. Not because it feels shiny. But because love is stitched into it. Because showing up matters. Because honoring someone—especially when it’s messy and unglamorous—has weight.

I’m a Christian, and I’ll tell you plainly: my faith is what holds me up when my nerves are fried and my heart is tired. Additionally, there is my daughter who reminds me I have other roles in this life. My mother (yes, you read that right—sometimes she is the one who grounds me). And my little animals, who have never once asked me a repetitive question, but have absolutely judged me for crying while holding a cheese stick and not sharing.

Here’s the magic recipe, and it’s annoyingly simple:

We are all doing the very best that we can – and that’s the sum of it.

There are no rules. No one-size-fits-all handbook. No gold medal for “most put-together caregiver.” Some days the win is brushing your hair. Some days the win is keeping your mouth shut. Some days the win is not running away to live on an island where nobody needs a snack, an explanation, or your last nerve.

Screaming in cornfields is normal.
Crying in the pantry is not only valid—it’s basically a rite of passage. And gummy bears? Honestly, they’ve earned a place in the caregiver tool kit.

This life we’re living doesn’t always sparkle. But it’s sacred.

It’s holy ground wrapped in mismatched socks and pill bottles. It’s early morning tears and late-night numbing. It’s loving someone fiercely while grieving who they used to be—and sometimes grieving who you used to be too.

But here’s the part we forget, and I want to say it like I’m looking you dead in the eye:

You are still here.
You still matter.
Even if your life feels paused, your purpose isn’t. There is purpose.

If my brain feels a little jumbled this morning… just roll with me. That’s kind of the brand around here anyway.

Faithful, Not Flawless

God isn’t asking you to be a martyr—just to be faithful. If you want to find proof of that, look for the story of Hagar in Genesis. It’s an eye opener – she’s a caregiver of another sort, but she knew without a doubt that God saw her. He sees us too. It’s the one time in the bible that he is called by the name El Roi. If you want to know more, just ask.

Faithfulness doesn’t mean perfection. It means showing up with bedhead and broken patience. It means apologizing when you snap. It means honoring your limits instead of bulldozing right through them like you’re invincible (spoiler: you’re not, and neither am I).

You’re allowed to be tired. You’re allowed to be mad. And you are absolutely allowed to ignore people who have no clue what this life actually demands. Maybe they BELIEVE they are being helpful – or perhaps they are the true reincarnation of the Mother Theresa (kidding – they aren’t).

So no, I haven’t written in a while – but here I am – bedhead fire and all.

You’re not alone.

We’ll keep supporting each other, laughing and crying together – even if some days it feels like we’re crawling on our elbows.

You’ve got this. And if you don’t? That’s okay. I’ll hold the line until you can. No hacks this week, just care, and understanding.

See you back out on the tracks!

1 comment on Hair on Fire, Sacred Ground, and a Pocketful of Gummy Bears
“My Life’s On Hold…Please Enjoy This Elevator Music”

January 4, 2026

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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.
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“Dear God: I’m All Out of Patience (And No, I’m Not Praying for More)”

December 19, 2025

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Dear God,

It’s December – the end of a long, hard year – for all of us. I’m all out of patience—and I’m not praying for any. Not today. Not this week. Actually, maybe ever. Definitely, not during the season of tinsel, tension, and trying not to scream in the cheese aisle at Safeway.

The truth is, this time of year is hard. Not Hallmark hard-real-life hard. Holiday movies forget to include the part where the caregiver burns the cookies and the last nerve in the same afternoon. Where traditions become landmines. Where you’re trying to hold on to some semblance of joy, and your loved one is just trying to understand what the fuss is all about.

This season, I’ve been riding the roller coaster of frustration. My tank is empty, my fuse is short, and I have no energy for “extra”- not extra errands, not extra expectations, and definitely not extra opinions from people who don’t understand.

But here’s what I do have room for: cocoa. Glowing candles. Quiet moments. Lopsided cookies. Cinnamon Sunset Tea. Music that sparks something good in both my mom and me.

I’m learning—slowly—to lean into those things. To stop trying to recreate Christmas past and instead meet the season (and my mama) where we are now. This year, that means embracing smaller traditions, letting go of perfection, and choosing peace over performance.

Yes, it’s hard. Yes, I’m tired. Yes, I still miss my “old” life. But I also know that for her, this time of year is hard too. It’s her anniversary on Christmas. My routines are off and it throws her. Her reality is different this year. She doesn’t understand why I need ten minutes of alone time just to survive. It’s just bonkers. So I breathe. And I whisper-scream, “I’m trying.” And I ask God for grace instead of more patience, because grace reminds me I’m human too. And, boy am I ever human.

And in the middle of the hard, I’ve seen glimpses of wonder. A twinkle in her eye when a favorite song played. A moment of laughter that wasn’t wrapped in sadness. That’s the gift I’m clinging to. That’s the memory I’m making. That’s Christmas this year. And it’s enough. I am loving the simplicity and the gentleness of it.

So if you’re barely hanging on, if your nerves are frayed and your eggnog has turned into emotional egg-slop-join me and the one Christmas decoration I have up. Let’s ditch the pressure and soak in what is instead of mourning what was.

You are doing sacred work, even when it doesn’t feel like it. And you, my friend, deserve peace too. So make it simple, and find the peace- even when it’s not easy.

With my last sliver of patience, a frayed nerve, and a cup of peppermint cocoa, I’m hugging you all! Soak in the spirit of Christmas, the magic of the moment in front of you – and take a deep breath. I’ve got this – and so do you.

Caregiver Hack of the Week:

Create a “Holiday Joy Basket” – just for you.
Toss in a cozy blanket, one good chocolate bar (not the kids’ Halloween leftovers), a favorite mug, and a playlist of songs that make you smile. When it all feels too much, go to your basket. Five minutes of sanity can do wonders – just don’t forget where you hid it. And, if you have the miracle of an hour – a hot bath with bubbles – is an amazing escape.

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When the Train Switches Tracks: Understanding the Loss of Executive Function

December 8, 2025

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There are moments in caregiving when the smallest things stop making sense. Papers are shuffled from one pile to another. The mail sits unopened. Meals go half-finished. A once-tidy home becomes cluttered, almost overnight. Emotions seem bigger. Decisions get harder.

We tell ourselves:
They’re just tired. They’re getting older. They’re having a bad week – or may I AM. But often, what we’re seeing isn’t “stubbornness,” “laziness,” or “they’re just not trying.”

It is the quiet loss of executive function.

Executive function is what allows a person to:
- Plan
- Organize
- Sequence steps
- Initiate tasks
- Switch from one task to another
- Control impulses
- Manage emotions
It’s the brain’s conductor, coordinating all the cars on the train.
And in dementia, that conductor gets tired… confused… or wanders off altogether.

A Hard Truth I Need to Say Out Loud

Yesterday (in fact, the whole past week) was a hard day. One of where I just sat there and thought:

I hate this disease. I hate this point in my life. BUT.

I love my mother.

This disease (and that is so hard to even say) has taken pieces of her that I cannot quite reach anymore. And those are pieces of her that were essential in our relationship — the music, the wit, the spark, the intelligence, the mischievous grin when she had something clever to say – or a comeback to end all arguments.

Mom has never been ordinary. I think that’s a high compliment. I’m so proud of her.

She could paint, draw, sew, teach, and play a trombone (also accordion, organ, piano, and other instruments) with the confidence of someone who knew that it was in her soul. She raised her voice for women before it was ever a movement, and she prayed for others like it was her life’s work (and still does – everyday).

She is still clever, quick, and funny. She can still spar verbally with the sharpest minds and usually win. It is a blessing to still have her here.

Now for some hard, real talk.

There are days when it doesn’t feel like a blessing.
There are days when the missing parts are louder than the parts that remain. And that truth is heavy.

When a person is brilliant and self-sufficient for a lifetime, their decline feels almost personal — like a trick is being played on both of us. It can land as manipulative even when it isn’t. I can’t always tell what is real or what is a symptom. Sometimes I choose to believe the best because I know her spirit… other times I feel like I’m being played and I get so frustrated I could scream.

This past week has been rough – for us both. And yesterday, I cracked. It was a really bad day.

The resentment came up fast and deep, like a wave that pulls you under before you even see it forming. I found myself short-tempered, exhausted, and angry. Angry at the disease, angry at the unfairness, angry at the never-ending needs and the emotional whiplash that is a daily routine.

It felt ugly to admit and even worse to feel.

Last night, when I finally crawled into bed, I prayed.
Not a fancy prayer — just a tired, honest whisper:

“I don’t understand. Help me. How do I do this?”

I wasn’t expecting much. We are in the thick of this season, and sometimes it feels like nothing will change – and it’s certainly not going backwards.

But God has a way of lighting a match in the dark when we least expect it.

A Moment of Clarity

Scrolling through my phone — half numb, half searching — I saw two words:

Executive function.

I sat up straight. I had heard it before, years ago, probably in some forgotten science class. But I had never connected it to this. Not to dementia. Not to the confusing parts of caregiving — the stop-start behavior, the overwhelm, the emotional swings, the moments that feel manipulative but aren’t.

I started reading.
Where it lives in the brain.
What happens when it breaks down.
How it affects tasks, decisions, emotions, personality.

And it was like the whole week rearranged itself in front of me.

Suddenly, I wasn’t looking at stubbornness or refusal or apathy.

I was looking at a brain that has lost its conductor.

The train cars are still there. The cargo is still precious.
The engine still runs. But the switches, signals, and direction are malfunctioning.

That isn’t manipulation. That isn’t a choice. It is neurology.

Understanding this didn’t fix my exhaustion.
It didn’t erase yesterday’s resentment.
It didn’t suddenly make caregiving easy.

But it gave me something I desperately needed:

Clarity. Grace. Language.

A way to see what’s happening that doesn’t break my heart quite so much – and most importantly – it will help me, help her.

And this morning, that feels like sweet mercy.

What Loss of Executive Function Looks Like

When executive function starts to slip, the signs can be subtle:

Home & Personal Tasks
- Dishes begin to pile up
- Clothes go unwashed
- Bills are missed
- Simple tasks become beyond ability.
- Appointments forgotten
- “I’ll do it later” becomes “I never did it”
Starting Something Is Hard

They know they need their walker.
They know they should take their pills.
They want to start… but the bridge between knowing and doing has collapsed.

They Get Stuck
- They begin watering plants, then stop halfway
- They turn on the oven but never cook anything or try to cook it on a paper plate.
- They stand in the hallway unsure why they’re there
Emotional Overwhelm

When everything takes extra effort, frustration, anxiety, and irritability rise.

We often mistake it for:
- resistance
- stubbornness
- “not caring”
- or “they’re doing this on purpose”
It isn’t any of those things.

Their brain is running a race with one shoe untied.

How We Help
- Reduce decisions
- Break tasks into steps
- Gentle cueing and prompting
- Create routines
- Remove obstacles
- Celebrate small wins
Consistency, simplicity, and dignity go a long way.

When Emotions Rise — Theirs or Ours

Loss of executive function is not just about tasks. It’s about identity.

They are losing abilities they once relied on. We are losing the person we knew.

Both hurt.

When resentment or exhaustion creeps in — and it will — remember:
No one can do this without breaks. Cry in your car if you need to. Take a walk. Ask for help.

The train cannot run without maintenance.

You Are Not Alone

If your loved one:
- Starts things they can’t finish
- Gets overwhelmed by simple tasks
- Becomes irritable or anxious
- Struggles to plan, organize, or follow steps
…you might be witnessing the loss of executive function.

It’s not intentional. It’s not a character flaw.

Their brain is changing.

Our role is not to force them back into who they were —
but to meet them where they are, guide gently, and remove shame.

This is tender work. Sacred work.

The railroad of caregiving is uneven, unpredictable, and sometimes heartbreaking but this knowledge might help ease things.

See you out on the rails, friends.

Caregiver Hack of the Week:

Take time to learn more. Here are some resources that might be helpful for you:
- Alzheimer’s Association – excellent articles and helpline
  https://www.alz.org
- Family Caregiver Alliance
  Practical advice
  https://www.caregiver.org
- Teepa Snow / Positive Approach to Care
  Videos, scripts, and strategies
  https://teepasnow.com
- National Institute on Aging
  https://www.nia.nih.gov
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“Is Dementia Contagious? It Sure Feels Like It.”

December 3, 2025

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The quick and dirty answer is no. It’s not. But let’s be honest: when you’ve been caregiving for years—and you start losing items, staring into space, forgetting what you were about to do—you begin to wonder: Am I next?

Every time mom forgets a name, loses a thought, or asks the same question again, I whisper: Please don’t let this jump to me. And while the reality is that dementia is not contagious, what is contagious is the chronic stress of caregiving. And that can leave you convinced you’re slipping.

Why Caregivers Feel Like They’re Joining the Club

When you’re running the entire operation—medications, doctor visits, comfort, meals, social outings, defending dignity—you are carrying a mental load so heavy that it warps your everyday reality.
- You forget your errands.
- You walk into a room and lose the reason you came.
- You stare at nothing—because all the synapses are busy carrying someone else’s needs.
- And eventually, the worry creeps in: Is this stress—or something worse?
The truth: most of the time it’s stress overload, not the start of dementia. You’re burned out, brain‑fogged, emotionally depleted. Your brain wants to care for someone else so intensely it forgets to care for itself.

So What About Dementia Then?

As I mentioned, no, it’s not contagious. But yes, it’s serious—and yes, caregivers worry. Here’s what the research says:
- Dementia (including Alzheimer’s disease) is diagnosed through a comprehensive medical evaluation—there’s no one simple test. Alzheimer’s Association
- Early‑onset dementia (before age 65) is rare, but possible. Mayo Clinic
- Warning signs include: difficulty solving familiar problems, confusion with time or place, struggling with familiar tasks, changing moods/personality. Alzheimer’s Association
- While newer tests are emerging—like the cleared blood test for certain markers of Alzheimer’s U.S. Food and Drug Administration—these aren’t routine screening tools yet.
So when you feel those “Oh no—I might be next” thoughts, let’s pause. Evaluate your lifestyle, check your stress levels, get your sleep, get your check‑ups—and then if symptoms persist? Talk with your doctor.

What To Do When Your Brain Feels Like It’s Turning to Static
1. Sleep is non‑negotiable. Your brain repairs itself when you sleep. When you skip it, your memory, focus and emotional resilience suffer.
2. Stress‑check your load. Are you carrying way more than one person’s needs? Of course you are. Is there someone that can step in for a couple hours so you can get your hair or nails done or have a coffee date (or go into the field and scream?)
3. Schedule respite—not later, now. Whether it’s a 2‑hour break, a weekend away, or a “tech‑free” afternoon. Your brain needs reset.
4. Monitor your own symptoms. Rarely is forgetting one date or name enough to mean dementia—but if you’re worried, use the list of warning signs above and talk to your doctor.
5. Don’t carry the guilt. Caregiver fatigue doesn’t mean you’re failing. It means you are caring deeply. That’s exactly why you need care too.
Caregiver Hack of the Week: “The Check Engine Light”

When your brain glitches, don’t panic—just treat it like the check engine light. You don’t assume your car is about to explode—you take a breath, pull over, and check your systems.

Ask yourself:
- Have I slept?
- Have I eaten something besides toast crusts?
- Have I moved my body today?
- Have I said anything out loud besides “Where are your pants?”
You’re not breaking. You’re blinking. Time to reset.

Final Thought

Your world might feel small. Your brain might feel tired. The fear of “am I next?” may be loud.

But the truth is this: You’re not alone. You’re not already broken. And dementia is not catching you by mere proximity. What can catch you is chronic stress, neglecting yourself, forgetting that you are someone too. So take a breath. Do the self‑check. And then carve out your reset—because the world needs you, whole and healthy. I know it’s hard, I feel it too.

Until next time. Keep chugging a long – and have faith – you will be okay – even if it’s not today.

I think I can. I think I can. See you at the next stop!
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“Eight Seconds at a Time: The Bull Ride aka as Caregiving”

November 19, 2025

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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.
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“Interrogated at 58: A Caregiver’s Tale & Vent”

November 14, 2025

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Because nothing says “self-care” like justifying your every move.

The Situation:

Caregiving comes with a lot of responsibility. A lot of laundry. A lot of decision-making. A lot of stuff that shall remain nameless today. But, you know what I didn’t see coming when I started this journey?

The guilt trips. And not the kind I give myself for feeding us peanut butter toast for dinner. I’m talking about the full-blown, full-throttle interrogation that hits the second I dare to leave the house for more than 20 minutes.

The minute I walk back in? It’s on!
“Where did you go?”
“Did you get groceries?”
“Did you talk to anyone?”
“Did you have a fun, fun day?” (I was gone for just half an hour.)
And my personal favorite:
“Were you really at the dentist this long?” Of course!! I LOVE THE DENTIST. We just hung out and laughed about root canals.

I’m 58. Fifty. Flipping. Eight. Yet somehow, I feel like I need a permission slip signed in triplicate just to go to anywhere. Every caregiver in agreement say aye!

Almost 7 years in, and it’s wearing me thin.

I make all the decisions. I carry all the weight. I schedule the appointments. I repeat every answer at least 3 times. I pay the bills, take care of the house, and run 2 businesses. I handle every “urgent” call or request throughout the day. Yet, the interrogations pop up whenever I do something for me.

Heaven forbid I take an hour to walk around Sam’s Club like a feral raccoon in leggings. Because then, the parent decides to come out in the guise of “curiosity.” “Are you okay? I was worried.” “What took you so long?” “Is the store REALLY that big?”

I hate being grilled under bright lights for leisure-adulting. Seriously! I promised you real, and this topic is bringing out my salty side.

Here’s the Truth:

You can love someone fiercely—deeply—and still feel suffocated by their constant scrutiny and neediness. It’s not that our loved ones are trying to be difficult (most of the time). Sometimes it’s the [cognitive decline, dementia, etc.] talking. Sometimes it’s old-school parenting (they never forget that role) kicking in. And sometimes, it’s just… them being them. Whatever the case, it makes you question your sanity when you’re trapped in an eternal loop of being both the caregiver and the kid. I absolutely despise it!!! It is SO hard.

But Let’s Laugh About It, Shall We?
- We are not failing. Remember the source. We’re navigating emotional landmines and laundry baskets full of mismatched socks. The signals are completely scrambled. The wires are shorting. So don’t take it personally. (This is CHALLENGING but try).
- We deserve a personal life. Even if it’s 30 minutes at the Dollar General wandering aimlessly and visiting with people.
- We don’t owe an explanation for trying to have some normalcy in our lives. Period.
The guilt trips may keep coming, but here’s the deal – you deserve “me time.” It’s non-negotiable – even if your loved one questions your every move like a tiny, retired FBI agent with memory issues.

You’re the one holding it all together. Throw a little grace on yourself like it’s glitter and keep going. You dserve you time. Okay, we’ve got this. Right? RIGHT!!!

Caregiver Hack of the Week:

The Phantom Errand: Pick an errand that sounds noble but vague, and go. You can cry in the car with dignity, scream in a cornfield if you need or go have a quick coffee with a friend. It’s an hour of freedom – just remember to go back home. (kidding – I know you will.) It’s who we are!
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“A Passport, a Pause, and a Promise to Myself”

October 8, 2025

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I opened a drawer the other day and found my passport.
Tucked away, unused for so long I didn’t realize it had expired.

Something about that discovery broke my heart a little bit.
Not in a dramatic way, but in the quiet, hollow sort of way that caregivers will recognize.

That tiny blue book used to represent adventure. Possibility.
The next big meeting. The next event. The next city, country, culture. It reminded me of a time when my life was full of movement—when my calendar was packed and my purpose felt outward-facing and exciting. I’m not sure that’s exactly how it was because life in events is stressful and it takes a lot of grit.

Now? Most days, I don’t even leave the house – my clothes are a uniform, not a style. Make up and hair decisions are made by whether there is a zoom call for my business or not. I want to go to the gym, work out, and walk, but I’m emotionally exhausted. I literally cannot finish one thing without something piling on right behind it. Yes, to a point that’s always life, but this feel so different.

A Smaller World

Caregiving shrinks your world.

Not because you don’t care. But because you care so much, you start to let go of everything else. Every decision is made around someone else. There it is in writing and reality. Every decision is made around someone else.

Social circles disappear. Spontaneity vanishes. Planning anything feels like wishful thinking. And before you know it, your whole world fits inside your office, your living room—and often, the doctor’s office.

Sometimes, like today, that makes me feel trapped. Sometimes, it makes me feel forgotten. And more often than I’d like to admit, it makes me feel like I’ve disappeared. Don’t misunderstand, I’ve always loved helping people, but caregiving is way beyond that.

I used to have a big career—stressful, yes, but also exhilarating. I accomplished things. I made things happen. Now, a good day means I accomplished my to-do list at work and there has been no medical crisis.

Why I Said Yes

When my parents needed me, I said yes.
Because that’s what love does.

The Bible says, “Honor your father and your mother.” It doesn’t say only when it’s convenient. Or easy. Or when you have no other dreams.

So I came home.
And I’m still here.
Six and a half years later.

And yes, there are beautiful moments. Yes, there is slower joy.
But some days—like yesterday—it feels like the whole world just kept moving while I had to stop.

This Is Hard for Me… but for Her, it’s Everything.

Here’s something I remind myself when the bitterness creeps in:
This life I’m living? This slow, small, careful life?

It’s hard for me…But it’s an answered prayer for my mom.She is safe. She is not alone. She is surrounded by love – and my grouchy sometimes too (gotta keep it real).
And for her, that is everything.

So for now, this life, has to be enough.

People always ask men about my plans after mom goes

How can I possibly answer that? The possibilities are endless. Only one thing is for certain, I’m gonna do me for a little while.

A Small Step Toward Someday

But I also need something for me, right now. A flicker of hope. A sliver of someday. Plans that light me up when I think of them. They don’t have an expiration date. Places I want to see and experience. Thinking of it is like breathing in fresh mountain air, and I felt my heart stir.

So I renewed my passport.
It doesn’t mean I’m hopping on a plane tomorrow.
But it does mean I believe there’s still more to come.

It means I’m still here. Still leaving room for joy, and adventure, and a life that doesn’t end when caregiving does—because it won’t.

To My Fellow Caregivers

If your world feels small, I see you. I feel your heart – and it’s tears.
If you’re grieving the version of you that used to be, I get it.
If you’re trying to be faithful while feeling a little lost, I’m right there with you.

But hear this: (notice that I’m included in what I’m about to say):
We are not stuck.
We are not forgotten.
And that “person we used to be” is not gone. We have to keep them alive and planning for when the time is right and the opportunity comes.

Right now, we are just holding space—for someone else, and for ourselves. One day, “this present” will be a beautiful memory of living with integrity, doing the right thing and cherished memories that will give your heart peace.

Keep the passport. Keep the hope. Keep going.

Caregiver Hack of the Week: Pack Your “Someday” Bag

Feeling stuck doesn’t mean you can’t still dream. When life feels small, symbolic actions can keep your spirit spacious.

This week’s hack? Create a “Someday Bag.”
It’s not a to-do list or a Pinterest board—it’s a tangible reminder that you still matter and your future still exists.

Inside your “Someday Bag,” include:
- Your renewed passport 📘
- A favorite travel-sized item (lip balm, tea, notebook, etc.)
- A postcard or photo of a place you’d love to visit
- A note to yourself that says: “We’re going. One day.”
Place it somewhere safe but visible. Let it remind you that this season, as hard and consuming as it is, will eventually shift.
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“Plugged In, Tuned In, Still Showing Up: There’s An App For That”

September 25, 2025

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You hear me say it all the time. Caregiving is an act of love—and like all love, it asks a lot of us. But it also gives us the opportunity to grow, adapt, and learn new ways to support the ones we cherish. And in this age of innovation, we’re not doing it alone.

Technology doesn’t replace the human connection. Used right, it amplifies it. Whether it’s a reminder for medication, a calming voice in the night, or a way to stay connected from afar—these tools give us space to breathe, to respond with more calm, and to care with more confidence. Here are some ideas that might help you:

Tools That Support Safety and Peace of Mind

These help you stop worrying just enough to sleep at night:
- GPS-Enabled Trackers (AngelSense, TheoraCare): Know where your loved one is without hovering.
- Smart Home Sensors (Wyze, SmartThings): Quiet alerts for door openings or unusual movement.
- Auto-Locking Medicine Dispensers (Hero, MedMinder): One less thing to track daily.
Staying Connected Without Stress

Connection is comfort—even when you’re across the room or across town:
- Voice Assistants (Alexa, Google Nest): Set reminders, play calming music, ask questions, or even joke around.
- Video Calling Devices (GrandPad, Echo Show): Large buttons, simple screens—no tech degree required.
- Picture Phones: Tap a face, not a number. Great for memory support and independence.
Daily Rhythm, Calm, and Comfort

Simple cues can ease anxiety and reduce frustration:
- Day Clocks (Robin Clock, Dementia Day Clock): Display the time, day, and part of day clearly.
- Routine Apps (Trello, Todoist, or CareZone): Track tasks, appointments, and to-do’s in bite-size chunks.
- Robotic Companion Pets: The purr or wag of a Joy for All cat or pup can provide unmatched comfort.
Tech won’t solve everything—but it can solve something. Whether it’s easing your mental checklist or helping your loved one feel more seen and secure, each device is a small act of grace. And sometimes, that’s all we need to keep going.

You’re doing the hardest job in the world. Let technology lend a hand—so you can offer your heart.

Caregiver Hack of the Week:

Build a “Tech Flow” Morning Routine.
Create a 15-minute tech-powered morning setup that sets the tone for the day:
- Ask Alexa to play a favorite song.
- Check your smart device notifications.
- Review the day’s meds and tasks on your caregiver app.
- Then pause and breathe. That counts too.
This one habit can reduce stress and make the whole day more manageable – and isn’t “more manageable” something we can all agree on? Thought so.

See you next week – choo choo!
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“Their World, Our Watch: Helping Seniors Feel Safe When the World Isn’t”

September 16, 2025

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Last week was heavy. Watching my mom’s face as she caught the news with me, I could tell the events — the shootings, the violence in Dallas and , the sadness — were affecting her. So, this morning I asked her: “How are you feeling about all the things happening right now?”

She responded right away. She spoke of Charlie Kirk, the school shooting in Evergreen, CO., Iryna Zarutskathe – the young woman attacked on the subway and beheading of the Chandra Mouli Nagamallaiah. She cares, and I realized just how much she is aware. And how much she feels. Our loved ones cannot be expected to bottle up their fears and questions and let them stew. It’s not healthy or safe for them.

She also feels unprepared to handle things if something went awry. A person with dementia or any type of cognitive decline processes events differently. Their sense of time and space is skewed, especially if they time shift. You’d be surprised at how much our loved ones absorb just from the ebb and flow and energy what plays on the television. If your loved one is still cognizant of current events, those moments can shake them deeply and we need to be sure to help them deal with it. Their security comes from us – their caregivers and loved ones – the people that they trust the most.

What Happens with Traumatic Events and Older Adults

Here’s what the research shows:
- Older adults who follow distressing news closely tend to have higher levels of psychological distress — including anxiety and depressive symptoms. PMC, MDPI
- For people with dementia or cognitive decline, bad news can trigger confusion, especially when they mix current events with memories or past traumas. Alzheimer’s Society
- Traumatic or alarming media exposure can reignite old trauma. Older adults are at greater risk of developing PTSD symptoms or adjustment disorders after disasters, mass violence, or similar events. PTSD VA+2PMC
- Frequent exposure to stressful current affairs can decrease sleep quality, increase worry, and make it harder for the body to unwind. Discovery Village
How We Can Help Loved Ones Feel Safer, More Secure

When you sense they’re feeling scared or disturbed, there are gentle hands-on ways to respond.
1. Ask Them — like I did this morning. Open with something like, “What have you heard about what’s happening? How are you feeling about it?” Let them share on their terms.
2. Limit Exposure — news is everywhere, but you don’t have to feed the fire. Turn off 24‑hour news channels, mute notifications, or choose specific times to check updates rather than letting them spill into every moment. Alzheimer’s Society
3. Stick to the Facts, Then Close the Book — when talking, keep things simple and factual, avoid speculation. Once you’ve discussed, transition to something comforting (a story from the past, music, a joke) to reset the emotional atmosphere.
4. Use Reminiscence Therapy or Shared Memory — bring up old photo albums, music from her past, things she knows well. It can ground them in what they know and love, not in what unsettles them. Verywell Mind
5. Offer Calm Reassurance — “You’re safe here. We’re watching out. I’m with you.” Physical comfort like holding a hand, hugging, or just being nearby can help more than words.
6. Create a Safe Space Ritual — maybe at a particular time each day you turn off the news, sit together with tea, do something soothing. Having a routine of calm gives them something stable to count on.
Final Thought

It’s okay to talk about what’s happening in the world. It’s honest. It matters. But we also have to guard their hearts. Their processing and logic doesn’t work the same, and we need to be aware and proactive when traumatic and overwhelming things happen. When it all becomes too much, we are the safe place. We can help them feel held — not terrified.

These conversations and our protection are part of this caregiving journey. And love — even softly spoken, even quietly done — can bring light when the world feels dark.

Caregiver Hack of the Week

“News‑Check and Rewind”

Set a “news check” time (say once or twice a day). During that time, catch up together. After the check, do a “rewind ritual”: share three pleasant memories, listen to a favorite song, or look at a photo from happier times. It helps shift the emotional weight of what’s come in.

See you on the SHCC next week!
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