The Silver Haired ChooChoo

“Caregiving Doesn’t Care Who You Voted For!”

May 28, 2026

Uncategorized

Apparently society believes caregivers survive entirely on inspirational Facebook memes, reheated coffee, and people telling us how “strong” we are. No? Convince me different.

More than 63 million family caregivers in this country are out here trying to hold together an entire care system with caffeine, guilt, exhaustion, and sheer force of will.

And somehow everyone is pretending this is sustainable.

The longer I live in the caregiving world (and I’m seven solid years in), the more convinced I become that this is one of the biggest societal crises nobody wants to honestly talk about until it lands directly in their own living room. Because caregiving has somehow been packaged into this soft-focus, inspirational version of reality where devoted daughters lovingly fluff pillows while meaningful piano music plays in the background.

The Lifetime movie version of caregiving is alive and well in people’s heads. It was in mine too, when I started, but life is brutal, and real caregiving looks a whole lot different.

Real caregiving looks like forgetting your own medications because you’re too busy managing someone else’s. It looks like crying in your car because the pressure never really shuts off. It looks like losing friendships because your world gets smaller and smaller while everyone else keeps moving. It looks like slowly realizing your identity has become entirely wrapped around keeping another human being safe, fed, medicated, transported, emotionally regulated, and alive.

And then—on top of all of that—you get judged for being tired or grouchy. That part might honestly be one of the hardest pieces of all.

The reproach.

The criticism from people who have absolutely no idea what this life actually requires but somehow still feel qualified to comment on your attitude, your patience, your exhaustion, your frustration, or your choices. People who think caregiving means dropping by for a pleasant visit once a week while someone else handles the medications, appointments, hygiene, insurance battles, meals, emotional breakdowns, memory issues, mobility concerns, paperwork, and endless responsibility. That’s not what I’m talking about.

Let me say this as clearly as I can:

There is a massive difference between visiting caregiving and living caregiving.

And the people living it are tired.

Not weak. Not selfish. Not ungrateful.

Tired.

Because the system itself is FAILING and FAILING them.

Professional caregivers are exhausted too. They are working incredibly difficult jobs that demand enormous emotional and physical labor, often for wages that don’t remotely reflect the responsibility they carry. Families cannot find affordable help. Facilities are understaffed. Home health agencies cannot find enough workers. Dementia rates are climbing. People are living longer. Middle-aged adults are simultaneously raising children, running households, working jobs, and trying to care for aging parents at the exact same time.

This is not a niche issue anymore. This is everybody’s problem.

And newsflash – caregiving does not care who you voted for!

Dementia doesn’t stop at red states or blue states. Aging doesn’t care about political affiliation. Illness does not check party registration before it arrives at your front door. Eventually, most families will touch caregiving in some way, and when they do, many are going to discover just how fragile this entire system really is.

That train is already coming fast down the tracks.

Which is why I’m tired of hearing politicians from both sides of the aisle talk endlessly about issues that divide people while largely ignoring one that affects literally everyone eventually.

Congress needs to pay attention.

The President needs to pay attention.

EVERYONE needs to pay attention. Trust me, if you don’t now, you will wish you had when it’s your turn. And, there WILL be a your turn.

Because you cannot continue building a healthcare and eldercare system that quietly depends on unpaid family labor while simultaneously offering families almost no meaningful support. Double that statement if you’re in rural America. You cannot expect professional caregivers to stay in the workforce when burnout is crushing and compensation often falls painfully short of the demands. And you cannot continue expecting millions of people to carry two full-time jobs-one that pays the bills and one that keeps someone alive-without consequences.

That is not strength. That is barely survival. And eventually, survival mode breaks people.

Caregiving work deserves real support. Better pay for professional caregivers. Better staffing. More respite care. Better mental health resources. Tax relief for families. Policies that recognize caregiving for what it actually is: necessary labor holding together an aging society.

Because right now, the system is functioning largely on sacrifice. And sacrifice is not an infrastructure plan.

So no, I don’t really need another person telling caregivers how “strong” they are while watching them drown quietly in plain sight. I need people paying attention. I need people educating themselves before caregiving becomes their own emergency.

And I need lawmakers to understand that 63 million caregivers is no small number when it comes to voting, either. Want to win an election? Champion this cause.

This isn’t somebody else’s problem anymore.

It belongs to all of us now! Let’s get to work. We can do it together. Red, White or Blue. This is an AMERICA problem.

No comments on “Caregiving Doesn’t Care Who You Voted For!”
“Dear Karens: Caregiver and Daughter Are Not the Same Job”

May 14, 2026

Uncategorized

(And before the actual Karens come after me, let me apologize right up front because I know several wonderful women named Karen – and I love them. You are not the problem. The “Karens” know exactly who I’m talking about. It’s the character not the person.)

There seems to be this strange belief floating around out there that if a caregiver admits they’re exhausted, overwhelmed, frustrated, or mentally fried, it must mean they don’t love the person they’re caring for enough. As if being tired somehow cancels out devotion. As if acknowledging how hard caregiving is means you’re secretly resentful or ungrateful.

Let me clear something up.

Two things can be true at once.

I can be absolutely mind-numbed as a caregiver and completely devoted as a daughter. Those things are not mutually exclusive. In fact, most family caregivers are living in both realities every single day, whether people understand it or not.

And honestly, some of the judgment from the outside world is exhausting. Truly – as if caregiving isn’t enough – there’s judgment.

There are people who genuinely think caregiving consists of sitting around watching television, making an occasional sandwich, fluffing a pillow, and asking your loved one if they need anything. Meanwhile, actual caregivers are over here functioning as medication managers, appointment coordinators, transportation experts, nutrition specialists, hygiene assistants, therapists, chefs, snack creators, paperwork professionals, emotional support humans, and the person responsible for remembering literally everything for two people at all times.

It is not a hobby.

It is not “helping out.”

It is an entire lifestyle – and it robs you of your identity because it is all encompassing. Somewhere inside all of those responsibilities, we’re also trying to remain daughters and sons.

That’s the part I’ve been thinking about lately.

Recently, because my mom has been recovering and in good medical hands, I’ve gotten to spend more time simply being her daughter instead of operating in full caregiver mode. And let me tell you something—it feels very different.

I’ve loved sitting beside her without mentally running through medication schedules in my head. I’ve loved having conversations that weren’t centered around appointments, pain levels, nutrition, or logistics. I’ve loved simply being present with her instead of constantly managing something.

My mom is precious to me. She always will be. If she weren’t I wouldn’t be attempting the impossible.

That doesn’t mean the repetition isn’t hard sometimes. It doesn’t mean watching her cognitive decline doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t mean the constant responsibility magically becomes easy. Watching someone you love slowly fade in certain ways pulls at your heart constantly because, somewhere deep down, you realize they will not be here forever. In fact, the parts we are most familiar with were gone a long time ago. And that reality hurts more than most people realize.

But at the same time, there are still sweet moments. Funny moments. Tender moments where she’s just Mom again. And when I’m not buried under the constant mental load of caregiving tasks, I get to enjoy those moments more fully.

I think that’s what people outside of caregiving miss. They assume exhaustion means resentment (and frankly – sometimes it does – and that’s real too), when really it usually means responsibility.

There’s a huge difference.

Caregivers are often trying to live in two completely different roles at once. One role is highly functional and task-oriented. That version of us is tracking medications, scheduling appointments, managing physical therapy, planning meals, watching symptoms, and trying to make sure nothing falls through the cracks.

The other role is relational.

That’s the daughter who wants to sit and drink tea, laugh over old memories, watch birds on the porch, or simply hold her mother’s hand without mentally checking off a to-do list at the same time.

One role is survival – and giving up everything that you are for someone else’s survival.

The other is connection. And both matter are hugely important.

Honestly, some of the things that feel luxurious to me right now would sound ridiculous to the average person. Eating a bowl of cereal for dinner instead of planning a nutritionally balanced meal feels like freedom. Sleeping until the very last minute instead of waking up early to organize medications feels decadent. Leaving the house without packing enough supplies to survive a minor natural disaster feels downright rebellious. The bar is incredibly low over here.

But those little breaks matter because caregiving can swallow your entire identity if you let it. Somewhere along the line, you have to intentionally create moments where you stop functioning only as a caregiver and allow yourself to simply love your person again.

Lately, I’ve realized that sometimes you almost have to divide the day emotionally. There are moments for caregiving responsibilities, and then there need to be moments for connection that have nothing to do with managing someone’s survival.

Go to lunch together. Sit on the porch. Watch a favorite show. Fold towels while talking about absolutely nothing important. The activity itself isn’t really the point. The point is allowing space for the relationship to exist outside of the caregiving structure.

It changes the emotional temperature for everyone.

The shoulders drop. The tension softens. Your loved one feels less like a patient, and you feel less like a case manager. You can thank me later.

Oh, and Karens? I hope you learned something today. Come on down off your judgy soap box. The weather is just fine without your input. In fact, let me say this as kindly as I can:

You truly do not understand this life until you’ve been in the trenches. You don’t. Period.

Caregivers are not failing because they’re exhausted. Most of them are exhausted because they are giving everything they have to someone they love. And trust me, there is a big difference between occasionally feeling overwhelmed and walking away from the responsibility altogether.

One is human. The other is absence.

And despite how hard this life can be sometimes, most of us are still here every single day, loving our people the best way we know how.That counts for something – especially to our loved ones that trust us to love them best.

Caregiver Hack:

Intentionally schedule “daughter time” or “son time” into the day. Even fifteen minutes where you are not correcting, reminding, organizing, or managing can completely reset the emotional tone between you and your loved one.

No comments on “Dear Karens: Caregiver and Daughter Are Not the Same Job”
“Through the Dementia Looking Glass: What it Feels Like on the Other Side”

April 28, 2026

Uncategorized

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what this must feel like for our loved ones. Not from my side of it as her daughter, and most certainly not from the caregiving side.

But from her perspective.

Because we talk a lot about what it’s like to care for someone with dementia. The exhaustion, the repetition, our grief. But what about the person living inside it? What must it feel like to lose your life… one memory at a time? From what we know—and from what I see every single day—it’s not just forgetfulness. It’s awareness.

In the earlier stages especially, people often know something is wrong. My father shared that with me firsthand. Research shows they can also feel fear, grief, anxiety, even embarrassment as they start to notice the changes happening in their own minds. And I see that in my sweet mom. They question their worth.

The way she pauses when she can’t find a word. The way she looks at me, searching my face for help. The way she apologize over and over again, saying “I’m sorry. My brain just isn’t working – but I know my name.” Deflecting. Trying to lighten the moment. That one gets me every time.

Because imagine living in a world where your own mind betrays you—and you know it, but you can’t stop it. You know you used to be sharp. Capable. Independent. Oh goodness and in my case, was she ever. If you know my mom you know how smart, talented, independent, quick-witted, playful and filled with grace she has always been.

And now she’s second-guessing everything. That’s not just frustrating. That’s downright terrifying. Studies say people with dementia can feel confusion, loneliness, and even embarrassment because they know they’re not tracking conversations or remembering things the way they used to.

And then there’s the fear. Fear of forgetting. Fear of getting lost.
Fear of saying the wrong thing. Fear of becoming a burden. And here’s the part that wrecks me a little:

Even when memories fade… feelings don’t.

Research shows that people with dementia may not remember an event—but they do remember how it made them feel. They may forget what they forgot, but they still feel the emotion of a moment they can’t touch with their memory.

Which means if they feel embarrassed, scared, or corrected too sharply… that feeling lingers, even if the moment itself disappears. Let that sink in for a second.

They may forget what was said. But they won’t forget how something made them feel. My heart cries at the thought of this. So what must it be like? Maybe it feels like waking up in a world that used to make sense… and now doesn’t. It’s hard enough to function in the craziness of this world with full awareness, but with cognitive decline? Ugh.

Maybe it feels like trying to grab onto something that keeps slipping through your fingers. Have you ever spent hours trying to remember a name? A detail? Imagine it being 24 hours a day.

Maybe it feels like being surrounded by people you love… and still feeling a little lost or lonely. And maybe, some days, it just feels exhausting. We will talk about showboating another time, but it’s a thing, and it’s tied in with this topic. Because their brain is working overtime trying to keep up, even when it looks like they’re “doing fine” on the outside.

So what can we do to help the situation? Let me suggest something – and I’m preaching to myself, too.

If they are feeling fear, confusion and/or embarrassment, what they need most isn’t correction.

It’s safety. Calm reassurance, and gentleness to ease the mental pain. It is someone who doesn’t make them feel like they’re failing. I mean – OUCH – when I think about that, I quiver a little inside. I know what that feels like from my life in the corporate world. And, it wrecked me.

People with any cognitive deficiency often take emotional cues from us. If we’re anxious, they feel it. If we’re frustrated, they feel that too. Why? Because we are their “safe space.” The ones that they can be exactly as loopy and silly as they might be in any given moment – because they know we won’t make fun, we won’t belittle them.

Which means we are not just caregivers. We are anchors.

And that’s a heavy responsibility—but also a powerful one. And, we have to live up to that standard, and when we fail at it, we need to get right back in and try again. Because we are the conduit that connects them to normalcy and dignity for as long as we can. Here are some ideas that I’ve been working on to help my mother hang on to her dignity and her sense of belonging and being needed in this hard to navigate season.

• Let them try.
Giving them space to do things on their own builds a sense of capability, even if it’s not perfect. You can fix it later or help them gently showing them how to do it without saying they are wrong.

• Respond to the feeling, not the facts.
When you validate their emotions instead of correcting them, you create connection instead of confusion. This one, and it’s hard to do. Work on it daily.

• Avoid correcting in the moment.
Protecting them from feeling “wrong” preserves their dignity and keeps them engaged. I’m work in progress in this one too. Just redirect them. “I think it might be this or that.” Same result, no shame.

• Cover them gently in public.
If they say something off or forget something publicly, resist the urge to correct them in the moment. Redirect gently. Change the subject. Fill in gaps quietly. How we handle those moments tells them whether they’re safe with us—or exposed.

• Create calm, familiar moments.
Confidence grows in environments that feel safe and familiar.
Simple routines, familiar music, quiet time together—these lower anxiety and help them feel grounded.
They may not remember the routine, but their body will recognize the calm.

At the end of the day, it’s not about helping them remember everything.

It’s about helping them feel safe… even when they don’t. I know, it’s a lot, but we have to keep doing the very best that we can.

Caregiver Hack:

Create a “no-pressure moment.” Here’s how it works:

Ten minutes.
No questions.
No correcting.
No expectations.

Sit with them.

Hold their hand. Listen to music they love. Look at old photos—even if they don’t remember them.

Or just sit quietly and let them feel safe.

Because even if they don’t remember the moment…

They will remember the feeling.

And sometimes, giving them a break from trying to keep up with the world… is the greatest gift we can offer.

This disease is insidious. I hate it with all my heart and mind.But underneath it all… they are still in there. And what they feel?

That still matters.

See you at the next stop.

No comments on “Through the Dementia Looking Glass: What it Feels Like on the Other Side”
“Today’s Mood: Loving… But Also Slightly Unhinged”

April 14, 2026

Uncategorized
I’m going to say something out loud that I don’t love admitting – but I’ve promised you the good, the bad and the ugly, so here we go.

My attitude lately? Not great.

Okay… if we’re being honest, it’s been hovering somewhere between “slightly irritated” and “one minor inconvenience away from a full meltdown,” and unfortunately, it’s not just affecting me. It’s affecting her. And that’s the part that really gets me cranking.

Because if you know my mom, you know she is kind. Gentle. Easy to care for in the physical sense. She’s not difficult in the way a lot of caregiving situations can be, which somehow makes my impatience and exhaustion feel worse. Because when I get short, or sigh a little too loud, or let that edge slip into my voice that says, “I’ve had it today,” I can actually see it land on her. And, the guilt from that is a stab in my heart. This woman has more grace in her pinky than most people can fathom in a lifetime. I don’t know where she gets it (but God) and I didn’t inherit it.

The thing about caregiving is that it doesn’t usually break us all at once. It’s not one big moment. It’s the constant. The repetition, the explaining, the always being needed, the constant insecurity, the fact that you’re never quite off-duty and always on guard. It’s like tinnitus running in the background of your life all the time. Most days, I can sorta handle it….but lately, that hum has turned into a loud buzz, and that buzz has turned into… static, resentment – and an attitude. It’s a reality, unless you’re all saints – and trust I don’t qualify.

Listen, I’m not proud of it. If you know me, you probably know that patience is not a virtue (and I’m not praying for any. My mama taught me how that works.) Let’s call like it is. I’ve caught myself being impatient (bitchy) over things that I KNOW—logically—are not her fault. I’ve heard my tone shift , and felt my blood pressure rise, and thought, “Where is this coming from?” and then immediately wonder if I’m insane. (Dear Peanut Gallery: DO. NOT. ANSWER. THAT!!!) Because she’s not doing anything wrong. She’s just…where she is. And I’m the one who’s tired.

Let’s be honest (and very vulnerable), sometimes it’s not the situation that needs changing—it’s us. ME. Our capacity shrinks. Our patience thins out. Our ability to stay calm when we’re running on empty just… (poof) disappears. And then you have the moment. The sigh, the sharp retort, the look you wish you could take back as soon as it happens. But you can’t. Toothpaste does NOT go back in the tube.

And that’s where the guilt moves in and makes itself very comfortable. I loathe feeling guilty – because I love my mama deeply. That’s the bottomline, and I’ve had more of those moments than I’d like to admit lately, and if you’re a caregiver, I have a feeling you know exactly what I’m talking about.

So here’s what I’m learning—very much in real time, not from a place of having it all figured out. Beating myself up over it doesn’t make me better. It just makes me more exhausted…which, it turns out, does absolutely nothing to improve my attitude the next time around.

What helps, even just a little, is catching it sooner. I’ve started doing something simple when I feel that edge creeping in. I’ll pause—just for a second—and quietly say to myself, “Okay… this is me. I’m overwhelmed.” Not her. Not the situation. Me.

That tiny shift matters more than I expected. It takes the blame out of the moment and gives me just enough space to respond to her differently – and in the way she deserves. From there, I take one slow breath in, and then let it out a little slower than I took it in. Nothing dramatic, nothing fancy. Just enough to interrupt the reaction before it takes over.

It doesn’t fix everything. The questions won’t stop. The situation doesn’t magically improve. But I can. Even just enough to soften my tone or reset my patience a notch. And some days, that’s the difference between a moment I regret, and one I can live with.
I’m also holding onto these truths, because I need them:
- One moment does not define the relationship.
- One bad tone does not erase years of love.
- One hard day does not make me a bad caregiver.
It makes me a tired one.

And tired people are not exactly known for their sparkling personalities. If they were, coffee wouldn’t be a billion-dollar industry.

The reality is, I still show up. I still take care of her. I still love her deeply-even on the days when my attitude needs a serious adjustment. And maybe that’s where grace actually lives in all of this. Not in getting it right every time, but in continuing to try again in the next moment.

So if you’ve been a little sharper than you’d like lately, if your patience has been thinner than usual, if you’ve felt that wave of guilt after a long day… you are not alone. I’m there, too.

We are human taking on an incredibly difficult task without training, or degrees or resources. You, me, and the rest of America! It’s a problem and we are all going to have to do something to figure it out. It may not be your turn today, but it will be one day – and soon it will be us needing help.

Remember, we are not doing this out of obligation – we are doing it out of love. I cannot say it enough – and besides, there’s not a quick exit off this train.

Caregiver Hack of the Week:

Find a step. Sit on it. Stay there for 5 minutes. Do not solve problems. Do not answer questions (if humanly possible). Do not make a plan.

Just breathe and pretend you are off duty. Even if it’s a lie.

Especially if it’s a lie.

We can do this. Yes we can.

I’ll be back with more war stories, soon.
1 comment on “Today’s Mood: Loving… But Also Slightly Unhinged”
“Grace at the End of a Very Long Day”

April 5, 2026

Uncategorized

Today was one of those days.

You know the ones.
The “how did we get here?” days.
The “that makes absolutely no sense” days.
The “I just explained this five minutes ago” days.

And by 6:00 PM, you’re not just tired… you’re emotionally threadbare.

Because here’s the truth no one really talks about — when you’re exhausted, the lack of common sense feels louder. The repeated questions feel sharper. The small things feel big. And your patience, which started the day strong and noble, is now sitting in the corner eating crackers and peanut butter, and refusing to participate.

I had one of those days today.

I felt the frustration creeping in. I felt myself getting short. I felt that quiet resentment that caregivers carry but rarely admit. And then… something small happened.

She smiled.

Not because anything made sense. Not because the day suddenly improved. Not because I handled everything perfectly. She just looked at me with complete trust — like I was the safest place in her world.

And that smile stopped me – errr – at least slowed me down.

Because while I see confusion, she sees comfort.
While I see repetition, she sees reassurance.
While I see exhaustion, she sees home.

This is the strange, sacred exchange of caregiving.

They lose common sense.
We lose energy.
But somewhere in the middle, love keeps showing up anyway.

And that’s the part I want to hold onto tonight.

Not the frustration.
Not the eye-roll moments.
Not the “how many times…” thoughts. Not the snappy retorts that inevitably slip.

I want to hold onto the smile.
The trust.
The way she still believes in my ability to care for her.

Because at the end of a very long day, when my patience is gone and my brain is mush, love is still there — quiet, steady, and stubborn.

And honestly?
That’s (and a good tv show) is enough to get me through to tomorrow.

Caregiving isn’t always graceful.
But sometimes… grace finds us anyway. And for that I’m so thankful.

Caregiver Hack of the Week: The “Pause Before React” Rule

When the frustration hits — and it will — try this:

Before responding, silently ask yourself:
“Is this dangerous… or just annoying?” If it’s not dangerous, lower your reaction by 50%.

This tiny mental pause helps you:
• Save your energy
• Avoid escalating tension
• Keep perspective
• Protect your patience for the things that truly matter

Because not every moment needs correction. I have to remind myself OFTEN of this. Some moments just need compassion… and maybe a deep breath – or ten if you’re me.

Bonus tip:
If you can laugh later, it’s probably not worth arguing now. Simple as it sounds, it works…if you can get it into your brain before your mouth engages.

See you next time out on the tracks. Until then…keep loving.

2 comments on “Grace at the End of a Very Long Day”
This Day I Hate My Life (And Still Refuse to Walk Away)

March 19, 2026

Uncategorized
I’m going to say the quiet part out loud today: I hate my life right now.

Not my mother. Not my town. Not the people who love us.
I hate the shape of my life. The way it has shrunk. The way it has swallowed my identity whole. The way there’s no real time for me, no clean edge to any day, and no such thing as “off.” I hate the isolation. I hate the resentment that shows up uninvited. And most of all, I’m exhausted from the daily grief of the last seven years.

This is the reality of caregiving.

And here’s the twist that makes it even more confusing: as caregiving stories go, my mom is the “best case scenario.” She is sweet. Gentle. Flexible. She loves me unconditionally. She’s my biggest fan. My cheerleader. If she could hand me a gold star and a snack every time I did something hard, she would. She’s willing.

That said, this life still makes me feel insane – and platitudes are the absolute worst thing people can offer.

Here’s the reality. She looks surface-fine to the world—and is absolutely broken with me. She holds it together out there, and unravels at home. And when you’re the safe place, you become the landing pad for everything. The fear. The confusion. The spirals. The repeated questions. The emotional disorientation. The “I can’t do this” moments.

And it is so flipping hard.

Today, I don’t know what else to do but ugly cry about it. Then pick myself up, dust myself off, and now I’m sharing with all of you—because I’m not walking away. I’m just broken for a minute. This is #caregiverlife. It’s easy to romanticize it, but this life overwhelms you when you least expect it. It changes you.

If you knew me before this, you know I used to be vivacious, driven, funny (and I still am to a point). I’ve always cared about people. I’ve always wanted to encourage others. I love living in my little town. I love so many of the people here. I’m deeply grateful for the support of my small business that helps support my mother and me. And I’m thankful—truly thankful—for the folks who show up with kindness that doesn’t require me to perform, explain, or pretend.

The little things in this life mean so much. A text of encouragement. A meal out to laugh. A sincere card “I’m thinking of you.” The help that doesn’t come with ten questions and a lecture. Those gestures of love save me.

But there’s also a reality people turn away from, because it’s uncomfortable. And we treat this the reality of chronic stress that caregiving causes like it’s taboo—and it’s actually dangerous to keep it silent. I started The Silver Haired Choo Choo because I knew if I felt this way, others were struggling too.

Hear me when I say this: If you’re not in it, you won’t get it and your “judgy” side will come out. That’s okay. You will understand one day—if you ever join this exclusive club that literally no one asked to be inducted into. Trust that I have been on both sides and I tell this truth from experience.

Caregiver mental health is not a “sad story.” It’s a FULL BLOWN crisis in this country. The Family Caregiver Alliance estimates 40–70% of caregivers have clinically significant symptoms of depression, and a substantial portion meet criteria for major depression. And research is increasingly documenting suicidality among caregivers—not as a scare tactic, but as a wake-up call. A 2022 review focused on dementia caregivers found suicidal ideation reported across studies, with wide variation, and some reporting suicide attempts. Another study analyzing U.S. suicide deaths found a subset identified as related to caregiver burden (hundreds per year on average in that dataset).

That’s why this is not a boohoo post. This is a WAKE UP CALL for our generation. This is a “God help me get through this” post. The mental complexity of the situation is real.

When I feel mad or resentful or wanting some freedom, the guilt sets in.

I’m heartbroken that my mom has to suffer through declining cognition— it bothers her greatly. She knows. She is embarrassed and she hides it – and smiles through it. She is losing a battle with her own brain, and it’s terrifying for her.

So what do we do with all of mental (and physical) complexity of all of the stress?

For starters, we stop pretending the “hard feelings” mean we’re bad caregivers. It’s simply not true.

Resentment doesn’t mean you’re heartless. It means you’re carrying too much. Exhaustion doesn’t mean you’re ungrateful. It means you’re human. Grief doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you love deeply.

And we make one decision—over and over again—to keep ourselves alive inside the care. And it is so hard from every perspective – emotionally, mentally, and physically.

What helps when you’re at the breaking point:
- Tell the truth to someone safe. Not the person who offers a platitude and a shrug. Someone who can actually hold the weight with you. Who’s been there and understands.
- Stop negotiating your need for rest. Rest is not a reward for finishing caregiving. It’s what makes caregiving possible.
- Lower the bar. If today’s win is “everyone ate and nobody ended up in the ER,” that counts. Truly, it does.
- Let other people be uncomfortable. Your honesty is not too much. Your reality is not too heavy. If they can’t handle it, that’s information—not your failure.
- If you feel persistently hopeless, talk to a professional. A therapist, your doctor, a pastor with training, a support group—someone who takes caregiver strain seriously. Seriously, REACH OUT. You cannot continue to suffer in silence.
And if you’re reading this and thinking, I’m not okay, please don’t sit alone with that. If you’re in the U.S., you can call or text 988 (Suicide & Crisis Lifeline). There is NO SHAME – ONLY COURAGE – in asking for help.

Caregiver Hack of the Week

The “Two Truths + One Next Step” Reset

When the day is crushing and your brain starts telling you the darkest stories, pause and do this:

Write or say two truths:
- “This is really hard.”
- “I am doing the best I can today.”
Then choose one next step that protects you for the next hour:
- Step outside for five minutes.
- Call one person who gets it.
- Drink some water and eat something real.
- Take a shower with the door locked.
- Sit in your car and cry until your chest loosens.
This is not a five-year plan. Not a personality overhaul. Just one next step. That’s how you get through a life you hate “right now” without letting it convince you that this is all there is.

Because it isn’t. There is a life that will unfold after this.

And if all you can do today is cry, breathe, and keep going—then you are doing exactly what caregivers do.

You’re still here. And that matters. I’m here, down a bag of Funyuns, but I’m here and I feel better after writing to all of you. You (we) are NOT alone. We are in this together, and I’m here to keep it real with you. I love you and I admire your heart for what you are doing. It is SO HARD.

Don’t give up. I see you. I love you, and we – yes, WE can do this. See you out on the tracks!

Sources referenced
- Family Caregiver Alliance: caregiver depression prevalence and caregiver health impacts. https://www.caregiver.org
- Review on suicidality in dementia caregivers (suicidal ideation/attempts reported across studies) https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/35696056/
- Study summary on suicide deaths related to caregiver burden (dataset analysis) https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/41161220/
1 comment on This Day I Hate My Life (And Still Refuse to Walk Away)
“We Love You, But Please Don’t Hug My Mom: Sickness is Not A Love Language”

March 16, 2026

Uncategorized
Flu season has officially arrived, which means the air is full of sniffles, “It’s just allergies,” and people wandering around with a Kleenex box under one arm like they’re starring in a heroic medical drama. After these windstorms and fires, I realize that some are allergies, but which ones?

Let’s be clear: for older adults and medically vulnerable people, flu, RSV, and COVID aren’t just inconvenient—they can become dangerous fast. So yes, I get a little protective. Not dramatic. Not paranoid. (okay, maybe a a little dramatic and paranoid), but very protective. Because we’re the ones living the reality when our loved one gets sick.

And here’s the part nobody says out loud: if your loved one gets sick, their needs go up and your caregiving load gets heavier—more monitoring, more laundry, more worry, more sleepless nights. And if the caregiver gets sick? Well… the universe doesn’t send a substitute caregiver to your doorstep with a clipboard and a cheerful attitude. It just sends you… still caregiving… with a fever.

So let’s talk about how to keep them well.

What we caregivers can do to protect our loved ones:
- Use pickup and delivery whenever you can. Groceries, pharmacy, household supplies. Let someone else roam the “coughing aisle.”
- Limit exposure during peak season. Not forever. Not in a bubble. Just strategically—like a person who understands cause and effect.
- Keep outings shorter and simpler. In, out, done.
- Be picky about crowds and indoor events. If it’s packed, poorly ventilated, or full of people saying “I’m getting over something,” it’s a no.
- Create a visitor boundary. A simple “We’re limiting visits during flu season” is a complete sentence.
- Consider a no-hug season. I know, people love hugging. But we can love people with a wave, a smile, and a safe distance.
And here’s why the distance matters: coughs don’t politely fall straight to the floor at your feet. Studies and simulations show cough particles can travel well beyond 6 feet—with one experiment noting a heavy cough reaching around 12 feet.
So if someone is hacking like a seal in a wind tunnel, please don’t let them “just pop in for a quick hug.”

You don’t need to disinfect your whole house like you’re prepping for surgery. Just tighten the common-sense stuff:
- Hand-washing stays undefeated. Before meals, after errands, after visitors.
- Wipe high-touch surfaces. Door handles, light switches, remotes (which are basically community property), phones, faucets.
- Keep air moving when possible. Even a few minutes of fresh air can help the space feel better.
- Pay attention to symptoms early and get medical guidance. If your loved one has symptoms, call their doctor promptly for advice on next steps and warning signs to watch for.
If you love seniors, disabled adults, or anyone medically vulnerable, here are your best ways to help:
- Stay home when you’re sick. Walking around with cough drops and a tissue box so you can attend an event or work, isn’t brave—it’s selfish.
- Cough into your elbow. Not your hand. Not the air. Not toward the dessert table.
- Skip the hugs. Especially for vulnerable folks and the caregivers who keep them safe.
- Don’t surprise-visit. Unannounced visits are chaos on a normal day and risky during flu season.
- Send a card instead. A real, paper card. That’s affection they can hold, re-read, and smile at again and again—without sharing germs. (And maybe spray it with Lysol, too).
Caregiver Hack of the Week

The “Front-Door Flu Protocol” (a kind boundary that protects your peace)
Put a small sign by the entry (or send it in a text before visits):
“Flu season caution: Please reschedule if you’re sick or recently exposed. We’re skipping hugs right now, but we’re so happy to see you.”

Then set up a tiny entry station: hand sanitizer + tissues + a cheerful reminder that love doesn’t require physical contact.

Because protecting your loved one doesn’t need to be awkward—it just needs to be clear.

If you’re caring for someone vulnerable right now, I see you. Your boundaries aren’t overreaction. They’re love with a backbone.

Let’s keep it safe on the tracks for everybody! Choo! Choo!
No comments on “We Love You, But Please Don’t Hug My Mom: Sickness is Not A Love Language”
“Hair on Fire, Sacred Ground, and a Pocketful of Gummy Bears”

February 7, 2026

Uncategorized

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

Uncategorized
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.
No comments on “My Life’s On Hold…Please Enjoy This Elevator Music”
“Dear God: I’m All Out of Patience (And No, I’m Not Praying for More)”

December 19, 2025

Uncategorized

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.

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