When I first stepped into the role of being my mother’s full-time caregiver, I thought I understood what it meant. What I didn’t realize was how this journey would reshape my life my routines, my relationships, and even my sense of self. I didn’t choose this role, it chose me. Becoming my mother’s full-time caregiver was a decision made in a single moment. It was the right thing to do. I could not imagine putting her in a facility and letting someone else care for her. The decision I made isn’t for everyone. I understand that and respect someone else making a different decision that is right for them.
💗 The weight of daily routines
Some mornings, I would wake up already tired. The day hasn’t even started, but I knew what was coming: the medications, the meals, the endless small tasks that keep her comfortable. I moved through them like muscle memory, but inside I’m carrying a heaviness that doesn’t go away. Always planning ahead, this was something I adapted to. I got to the point that there was already a game plan. Sometimes alternate versions of that plan. Planning ahead for what could go wrong. There’s no clock-out time. Even when I sit down, I’m listening for her voice, her movement, her needs. My body is here, but my mind is always half-alert, waiting for the next task to be completed.
✨The Loneliness
Caregiving is isolating. Friends drift away, not out of malice but because my world has shrunk to the size of this house and because others cannot understand what goes into caretaking unless they themselves have been through it. Invitations stop coming. Conversations feel foreign. Sometimes I wondered if people even remember I exist outside of being “the caregiver.”
It’s lonely in ways I can’t explain. I even felt abandoned by many who should have stuck my me. Even dare I say jealous. Scrolling through social media and seeing this friend went to a concert, that friend took a fantastic vacation. The world was passing me by. I was missing the “fun” of life. I felt unseen by so many people. My mother sees me, yes but she sees me through the lens of her dependence. And I love her, but I miss being loved for myself. Instead I was loved for my sacrifice.
🌧️ The Challenges
There were moments I was broken. Quiet tears in bed. Anger that flares when I’m too exhausted to be patient. Guilt that follows immediately after, because how dare I feel resentment when she’s the one that didn’t ask to be in this position. I’ve learned that caregiving isn’t just about her it’s about confronting parts of myself I didn’t want to face. My limits, my fragility, my patience and my need for help that I rarely asked for. I became so overly independent. Choosing to figure it out myself. I’ve learned that caregiving is both an act of love and an act of endurance. It requires patience when I feel drained, and compassion when frustration creeps in.
🌞 The Unexpected Gifts
There are glimmers of happiness. A laugh that escapes her lips when I least expect it. A story from her youth that reminds me she’s more than her illness. A moment where she squeezes my hand, and I know she understands the sacrifice I’m making. Those moments kept me going. They’re small, but they’re real. They remind me that beneath the exhaustion and frustration, there is love. Caregiving has taught me to slow down and notice the small victories.
🌱 Finding Myself Again
It’s easy to lose yourself in caregiving. I’ve had to remind myself that I am more than this role. Small acts of self-care are not indulgences; they are survival. Time away from the situation is okay. I am important.
✨ Closing Thoughts
Caregiving is not noble, it’s not romantic, it’s raw, messy, and sometimes thankless. These small acts may seem ordinary, but they carry extraordinary weight. They are the threads that weave together her dignity and my devotion. But it’s also the most human thing I’ve ever done. My chapter as caregiver lasted 5 years, but I know I’ll carry its scars and lessons forever.
The grieving caregiver 