I never thought coming to Maplewood, North Carolina would feel like this. When I left Riverside, Illinois back in 2023, I came because my grandparents needed help. They were starting over after decades in the same city, and I wanted to make that move easier for them. I thought it would be a chance to give back—to help, to grow. But now, some days, it feels like I gave up everything to keep everyone else standing.
It started with little things. Comments from my uncle—how if someone else had come to help, he would’ve bought them a car or found them a place of their own. Those words told me everything I needed to know about how I’d be treated. But still, I stayed. I wanted to believe love and family meant something.
Then, late 2024, my granddaddy got sick. Really sick. He passed away right before Christmas. He had always taken care of my grandma—every small thing. Feeding her. Bathing her. Caring for her, even though she could do much more for herself than she ever let on. Losing him left a hole in her world—and somehow, I became the one to fill it.
I became her hands, her back, her routine. I called off work when no one else was there. I lost my job because care doesn’t clock out. I even became a paid caregiver for her—until she took me off her pay schedule without warning. I think my uncle had something to do with it, but she told me she didn’t know I wanted to stay on. And even after that, she still leaned on me for everything—meals, errands, cleaning, taking out her commode.
It’s not the work that breaks me—it’s the way it feels like my care doesn’t count. She has other caregivers, but she still calls my name for things that could wait, or things she’s done herself when she wants to. I tell myself she’s lonely. I tell myself she’s scared. But the truth is, I’m tired.
I’ve spent my own money to make sure there’s food and paper towels in the house. I’ve cleaned rooms that never seem to stay clean. I’ve done things no grandchild should have to do. And when I try to pull back—to give myself some air—she finds ways to remind me she still holds the power.
Now I’m standing here, trying to figure out where to go next. I don’t have a soft place to land. I just know I can’t keep doing this alone.
I’m strong. I know that. But right now, I’m not okay. And I’m just trying to find a way to start again—without guilt, without fear—just enough peace to breathe.
Editor’s Reflection (by Jessica Campos)
In Tiana’s story, we see the weight of invisible care—the kind that asks everything and offers little back. Her exhaustion doesn’t mean she’s weak; it means she’s human. If you’re caring from a place that feels one-sided, take a moment to remember this: your worth isn’t measured by how much you endure. Even in the middle of struggle, you are allowed to reach for air.