I spent most of my twenties caring for my grandpa—the man who raised me when no one else did. I never knew my real father, and my mom was rarely around. He was the one constant, the one who showed up. So when he got sick, there was never a question in my mind that I would show up for him, too.
While most people my age were out figuring out who they wanted to be, I was changing diapers, coordinating medications, and making sure he never felt alone. I’d sneak out once in a while, maybe grab a drink or see a friend, but those nights always ended early. I couldn’t shake the pull to come home and make sure he was okay.
Caring for him was an honor, truly—but it was also the kind of experience that changes you in ways life never prepares you for. You see things that split your heart wide open and somehow make it stronger. You witness strength unravel and love stretch until it hurts.
What made it harder were the people around us. My aunts—his daughters—were quick to criticize, slow to help. They’d call, telling me what I wasn’t doing right, and when I told them to come see for themselves, they’d show up for short visits, all smiles, then disappear again. And then there was my uncle, an addict living in the same house, chaos always following him. More than once, I had to call the paramedics, watching them roll him out on a stretcher while his son begged for money in the hallway. It was like living in two worlds—one where I was holding my grandpa’s hand through illness, and another where the rest of the family was falling apart.
The hardest part was watching him fade. Seeing the man who once lifted me onto his shoulders struggle to lift his head off the pillow. There’s no real way to describe that kind of helplessness—the feeling of trying to give someone hope when you’ve run out of it yourself.
I used to tell him, “You don’t have to be the strong one anymore, Grandpa. I’ll be strong for both of us.” I said it with conviction, but inside I was breaking. When he finally passed, after years of cancer and hospital stays, I thought I’d find peace. Instead, I felt empty—like part of me had gone with him.
I was there through all of it. Through every late-night call, every emergency, every impossible decision the doctors left up to me. When the respiratory therapist asked, “Do you want to increase his oxygen and slow the process, or lower it and make it quicker?” I was 32 years old and holding a choice no one should ever have to make. I chose the middle.
I was the only one who heard him whisper that he was ready to go, the only one who heard him talk to family who’d already passed. I felt the stillness in the room when he took his last breath. I felt the peace that came over him, and the way it ripped me open at the same time.
You can’t explain that kind of love—or loss—to anyone who hasn’t lived it.
Years later, I still haven’t recovered. I don’t think you ever really do. You just learn how to carry it differently.
Now, I’m caring for my aunt—the only family I have left. She’s been through her own battles, including cancer. She’s tough, maybe the toughest woman I know. But lately, I see her slipping too. Forgetting conversations, getting confused, lashing out. The signs of decline feel too familiar, like I’ve stepped into a story I’ve already lived once before.
Today’s her birthday. I had everything planned—bought her a sugar-free cake mix since she’s diabetic, scheduled a massage for her (I’m a licensed massage therapist), wrapped her gifts. I wanted her day to feel special. But when I told her about the cake, she got upset. Said she didn’t want it. Said she was going to dinner with a friend instead. Then, later, she changed her mind again.
She does that a lot now—changes plans, contradicts herself, gets angry when I can’t keep up. This morning she called from the blue, saying she wanted to go to the park and was upset that I couldn’t take her. I was at work. I told her I couldn’t leave, and she sighed and said, “It’s so hard to plan anything with you.”
No matter what I do, I end up being the bad guy.
I know she’s not doing it on purpose. I know her mind is tired. But still—it’s draining. It’s the kind of exhaustion that sits deep in your bones. I try to remind myself that she’s scared too. Losing independence does that to people. But some days, the compassion runs out faster than I want to admit.
Sometimes, I think about all the years I’ve spent caring for others and how I’ve never really cared for myself. Everyone I’ve loved has needed me to be the strong one. And I’ve done it, over and over. But strength without rest turns into survival, and survival isn’t the same as living.
I love my aunt. I loved my grandpa. But some nights, I just sit in the car before going inside and whisper, “I’m tired.” Because I am. Tired, but still showing up.
Maybe that’s what caregiving really is—not endless patience or perfection, but the choice to stay. Even when you’re worn thin, even when love feels like a weight you can barely carry.
And maybe one day, I’ll learn to stay for myself too.