It’s been fourteen months since I started caring for my dad here in California. When I first came, I thought I could handle it. I thought I’d balance work, friendships, and small joys while still showing up for him. But somewhere between the daily medications, doctor calls, and sleepless nights, life began to shrink around care.
My phone barely rings anymore. Friends stopped asking to hang out, and honestly, I stopped saying yes long before that. I used to have hobbies, favorite playlists, little rituals that reminded me who I was. Now, most days, I’m not sure who that person even is.
I love my dad. That part has never been in question. But love can be heavy when it’s constant. When it has no off switch. When it requires you to trade your own life for someone else’s comfort. There are moments when I look at him and feel both tenderness and grief—grief for the version of him who once told me to rest, and grief for the version of me that could.
Sometimes, I catch myself scrolling through old pictures—me smiling on trips, laughing with friends, doing things that felt effortless. And I wonder: will that version of me come back? Or is this who I am now—someone who keeps things running, who forgets to eat, who cries quietly in the laundry room because the silence feels like too much?
I want to stay connected. I want to feel whole again. But right now, I’m just trying to remember that I exist outside of this role. That even in this small, quiet life of caregiving, there’s still a heartbeat that belongs to me.
Editor’s Reflection (by Jessica Campos)
Danielle’s words remind us that caregiving doesn’t just reshape our days—it reshapes our identity. If you’ve ever missed the person you used to be, take this as permission to reach for her again, even in small ways. A walk, a song, a breath. The self you miss is still here—just waiting to be seen with gentler eyes.