Some days, I barely recognize my own life. A few months ago, I was driving across states, merchandising, training teams, co-hosting a beautiful beach house as an Airbnb, living a life that felt like mine. I had space, purpose, movement—and even joy. I took a cruise to Honduras, felt the sun on my skin, the ocean beneath me, and believed life could feel effortless.
And yet, I knew this was always coming. I am the one without children, without a family of my own. I am the one who chose the road, who chased the world, who sought to see new places, to learn new things, to live expansively. I knew someday, responsibility would find me, and it has—suddenly, fully, with no warning that I could ignore.
Now, I live in a small one-bedroom apartment, sleeping on a couch, my world reduced to what I can carry and fit into someone else’s schedule. My mom was hospitalized, put on oxygen, and I relocated across the country to care for her full-time. I never asked to be a caregiver. I never trained for this. I never wanted this.
I’ve taken courses. I’m certified in palliative care. I’ve completed both PFA and SPR training. On paper, I should feel capable. In practice, I still struggle every day—organizing tasks, juggling schedules, balancing care with life, and keeping my own head above water. I feel like a fraud, exhausted before the day even starts. I rage at myself for not being enough. I rage at life for being unfair. I rage at aging, at hard life changes, at how abruptly everything can shift. And yes, I feel flashes of anger at my mom—not at her, but the reality that illness and dependence force both of us into roles neither of us chose. I know it can’t be easy for her, having someone in her space all the time, losing the independence she’s always had.
Depression creeps in during quiet moments. I mourn the freedom I lost, the movement, the energy, the car rides with Colonel, the career that felt like me. I mourn the version of myself I can’t bring into this new role. Some nights, the apartment feels too small, my body too tired, my heart too heavy.
And yet… I love my mother. I am honored and deeply glad to be here, to support her, to care for her. That love is real. That connection is precious. And still… burnout is real too. It’s a thing. It’s necessary to take care of yourself even while giving everything to someone else. I remind myself that rest, space, and self-compassion aren’t selfish—they are survival.
Even in imperfection, presence counts. Strength isn’t perfection—it’s staying in the storm, loving fully, and remembering to breathe. I hate that I feel like a failure. I hate the anger, the sadness, the exhaustion. But this is life now. This is love and responsibility, in all its messy, heartbreaking, beautiful complexity. And somehow, amidst all of it, I’m learning to carry it—one messy, aching, sometimes joyful day at a time.