The Stubbornness of Caregiving

Who is beside you in this moment?

A dear friend.

And we’ve already braved the dark together, we’ve already witnessed miracles, and I know we’re both grateful for the friendships, family, and tribes in our lives.

This year and last have taught me the power of community. Community in family and keeping communications clear and integral. Friendship circles and tribes, communities in social circles like our churches, writing groups, libraries, and schools.

I always thought I needed to bow up and get things done on my own. I developed a not-so-good reputation for taking it all on and leaving nothing else for others to do.

That was island mentality.

I carried that into writing and avoided writing classes, groups, and retreats.

I just need to sit my ass down and write, I told myself.

Part of that sentence is true. A certain amount of ass in chair is required. The word “just” is false. I need to write alone AND with others. I need writing groups.

That has been the biggest blessing and development coming out of 2025.

I’m grateful for all my tribes:

• my family tribe
• my church tribe
• my friend tribes
• my writing tribes

Miracles happen within these circles.

The light that friends and family and fellows bring will always guide use through the darkest, most terrifying nights.

I am grateful to have a friend beside me today who is part of many of my tribes—friend, church, writing—and, also recently, this tribe of caretakers that surrounds me as I heal.

In the Arena

When Mom was battling Alzheimer’s, there was that one big obstacle—I called it her Bull—the disease, and relevant to the Bull we were all living in a liminal space as we watched the Bull relentlessly toss Mom’s body and mind in the arena.

She fought it.

But she knew—we all knew—who would win.

But beyond that one behemoth of an obstacle that had our family in limbo, we were also not in limbo, we were also navigating smaller obstacles and moments outside the arena.

A certain amount of guilt dusts the hearts and minds who are in this dual space, the big tree blocking the road—the angry bull—as well as what is certainly trivial by comparison.

Guilt that we continue to get good news, that we overcome smaller obstacles—how can we speak of this in the Alzheimer’s arena.

I wish we could normalize emotions that go into caregiving.

My friend looks at her parent, frustrated because what’s left? Why is she still breathing? And then says, “I’m a terrible person.”

“Nor you’re not,” I remind her.

There is a weariness in this journey that we don’t talk about enough. We can’t help but wonder: when will it end? where will it end?

And some of us feel the relief when it finally ends.

And then the guilt.

I’d like to say and remind all caregivers, it’s okay to feel the relief. It’s okay to feel a little resentful on those weary days.