My world has become so small since I became my mother’s caregiver. I didn’t notice it at first—it happened gradually, the way water slowly erodes stone. The invitations I turned down, the plans I stopped making, the dreams I tell myself can wait. Until one day, I looked up and realized my life is being swallowed whole.
Caregiving does that. It insulates you. It narrows your focus until all that exists is the next appointment, the next phone call, the next crisis to manage. It keeps you tethered, unable to move too far in any direction because you are the safety net, the decision-maker, the one who must always be available.
And yet, despite the toll—the exhaustion, the isolation, the way it changes you in ways you don’t always like—I know this time is irreplaceable. There is something profound about being present for a parent in their final stretch of life. About bearing witness as they slip further away, about holding space for them in their most vulnerable moments. It is an experience that is as sacred as it is devastating.
The Beauty of Being There
Not everyone gets to do this. Not everyone gets the chance—or the burden—of standing at the edge of their parent’s life, helping to soften the inevitable. As painful as it is, I know that in some ways, it is a privilege.
There are moments of tenderness in the midst of the exhaustion. Moments where time slows, where I catch glimpses of who she used to be, where we sit in shared silence, the weight of unspoken things hanging between us. There are moments where love transcends the difficult history, where old wounds seem less sharp in the face of what’s coming.
And yet.
The Cost of Caregiving
The damage caregiving does—physically, emotionally, mentally—cannot be overstated. The stress burrows deep into your body, manifesting in headaches, tension, fatigue that no amount of sleep can touch. The constant state of hypervigilance frays your nervous system until even the smallest unexpected change feels like a disaster.
Then there is the loneliness. The way the world outside your caregiving bubble keeps moving forward while you remain trapped in an endless loop of responsibility. Friendships fade, not out of neglect but because your capacity is so depleted that even answering a text can feel like too much. Conversations start to feel foreign, as if the language of everyday life is no longer one you can speak.
And perhaps worst of all, the slow erosion of self. The realization that you have become so defined by someone else’s needs that you hardly recognize your own.
Because beyond the isolation, beyond the exhaustion, there are things I want—things I need—to be doing for myself and my life. There are projects I want to bring into the world, goals I have worked toward for years, parts of me that are aching to move forward. But I am struggling in ways I never have before. Struggling to summon the energy, struggling to focus, struggling to give to myself with even a fraction of the commitment I give to her.
And that is its own kind of grief.
Because I know what I am capable of. I know the person I am when I am not weighed down by this endless, invisible labor. And yet, right now, it feels like I am moving through mud—pushing forward, but slowly, painstakingly, and with no clear end in sight.
Trying to Hold On
I don’t have all the answers. I don’t know how to fully reclaim myself while still showing up in the way that I need to. But I do know this: Caregiving does not have to mean disappearing.
I remind myself that I am still here, beneath the layers of exhaustion and responsibility. That I still have a right to joy, to creativity, to a life that extends beyond these walls. That it is possible to hold space for my mother without surrendering all the space within myself.
And I am trying. Trying to reach back out, trying to reintroduce pieces of my life that once brought me light. Trying to remember that the world is still there, waiting for me, whenever I am ready to return.
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