Month: August 2026

When Your Body Says, “Slow Down”

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A Caregiver’s Reminder That Rest Is Part of Recovery



I’m a little bit of a nerd. I like tracking my fitness and health—numbers and trends that help me understand what my body is saying.

During this season of caring for my mom, I’ve become especially interested in my HRV, or heart rate variability.

HRV measures the variation between heartbeats and can offer clues about how your nervous system is handling stress and recovering. A higher or steadier HRV relative to your baseline may suggest better recovery, while a sustained drop can signal increased strain.

Stress can be physical, emotional, mental, relational—or simply the result of poor sleep, caregiving, worry, or too many responsibilities.

Recently, my husband asked if I wanted to go hear live music. My immediate response was:

No.

Not because I didn’t love him or enjoy live music. I just didn’t want to get dressed, leave home, socialize, or do one more thing.

So I stayed home with the pup.

And it felt luxurious.

The house was quiet. Nobody needed anything. There was nowhere to be and nothing to organize. Just me, the pup, and stillness.

I realized how desperately my nervous system needed it.

Maybe we’re not resting as much as we think we are.

We may exercise, eat well, take vitamins, attend church, or take a day off—but are we actually recovering?

Stopping isn’t always recovery. You can sit on the couch while mentally running through your to-do list. You can take a day off while caring for everyone else. You can keep exercising when your body needs rest.

Maybe you’re tired, irritable, sleeping poorly, unmotivated, or simply don’t want to go anywhere.

Maybe that’s information.

Your body is communicating. We have to be willing to listen.

Your 100% might look different today.

Giving 100% doesn’t mean doing 100% of what you normally do.

If your capacity is 30% and you give that 30% everything you have, you gave 100%.

Your capacity changes. Some days it’s 90%. Some days it’s 30%. That doesn’t make you less committed. It makes you human.

Caregiving requires constant adaptation. What worked yesterday may not work today. That isn’t failure. It’s your body asking you to pay attention.

A simple check-in for when your body says slow down

Ask yourself:

– What is my body telling me? Where am I holding tension? Am I tired or pushing when I need to pause?
– What am I feeling? Have I allowed myself to feel it?
– What is taking up mental space? What can wait, be delegated, or remain undone?
– Where am I finding peace? Am I making room for quiet, prayer, connection, faith, or stillness?

Sometimes getting back on course doesn’t require doing more.

Sometimes it requires stopping long enough to hear what you already know.

A little challenge for this week

Ask yourself:

1. How am I really recovering?

Not how am I functioning or accomplishing. How am I recovering?

2. What is my body telling me?

Notice your energy, sleep, mood, tension, motivation, and desire to withdraw. Wearables that track HRV can help you notice patterns, but you don’t need a device to listen to your body.

3. Where can I create more quiet?

Maybe it’s an hour alone, saying no, delegating a responsibility, sitting outside, or staying home with the pup.

Whatever it is…

Give yourself permission to recover.

Caregiving asks so much of us, but you don’t have to run yourself empty to prove your love.

Your loved one needs you.

And you need you, too.

So if your body says, “Stay home tonight,” listen.

Sometimes the most productive thing we can do…

is absolutely nothing.

The Gift of the Conversations We Have While We Can

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Yesterday, a good friend reminded me of something I sometimes forget.

She asked me how I was feeling about my dad, his cancer, and the fact that he is going through chemotherapy to keep it at bay.

My answer surprised me a little.

“I’m okay.”

Not because I want him to die. I don’t.

Not because I want him to experience pain or struggle. I certainly don’t.

I’m okay because my dad and I have talked.

We don’t keep things from each other. We’ve had the hard conversations. We’ve talked about what matters to him, what he wants, and what he doesn’t want. I know his wishes.

And there is an incredible kind of peace that comes from that.

I’m still his little girl. I’m sure there are times he puts on a brave face for me, and maybe even fights a little harder because I’m watching.

But underneath all of that is something I’m incredibly grateful for: we have talked honestly while we still can.

My dad has loved me to the best of his ability. He has taught me lessons through both the good and the difficult parts of life. He communicates the best way he knows how.

And that, in itself, is a gift.

There is another side to this realization for me.

My mom and I had those conversations too. We talked about life. We talked about difficult things. We talked deeply.

But dementia has changed that.

The conversations I once had with my mom, the ones where we could explore an idea, work through something difficult, or simply connect heart-to-heart, aren’t available in the same way anymore.

And that has made my relationship with my dad feel even more precious.

He has become, in some ways, my saving grace. I can still talk to him in a way I can no longer talk to my mom.

And maybe that’s the lesson I’m being reminded of.

Have the conversations.

Don’t assume there will always be more time.

Ask the questions you’ve been avoiding.

Tell someone what they mean to you.

Talk about what matters. Talk about wishes. Talk about fears. Talk about the things that feel uncomfortable.

Because someday, one of those conversations may become a gift you carry with you.

As a coach, I often talk about being intentional with our lives. Sometimes that means setting boundaries or taking care of our bodies. Sometimes it means slowing down enough to actually listen to what our hearts are telling us.

And sometimes, it simply means picking up the phone and having the conversation.

While you still can.

A few things to consider

– What conversation have you been putting off?
– Is there something you need to ask someone while they are still able to answer?
– Is there something you need to say that you’ve assumed you will have time to say later?
– Do the people closest to you actually know what matters most to you?
– And if circumstances changed tomorrow, would you have peace knowing you had said what needed to be said?

We can’t control how much time we have with the people we love.

But we can be intentional about how we use the time we have.

Sometimes the greatest gift isn’t knowing what the future holds.

It’s knowing that you’ve had the conversations that matter.The Gift of the Conversations We Have While We Can

Yesterday, a good friend reminded me of something I sometimes forget.

She asked me how I was feeling about my dad, his cancer, and the fact that he is going through chemotherapy to keep it at bay.

My answer surprised me a little.

“I’m okay.”

Not because I want him to die. I don’t.

Not because I want him to experience pain or struggle. I certainly don’t.

I’m okay because my dad and I have talked.

We don’t keep things from each other. We’ve had the hard conversations. We’ve talked about what matters to him, what he wants, and what he doesn’t want. I know his wishes.

And there is an incredible kind of peace that comes from that.

I’m still his little girl. I’m sure there are times he puts on a brave face for me, and maybe even fights a little harder because I’m watching.

But underneath all of that is something I’m incredibly grateful for: we have talked honestly while we still can.

My dad has loved me to the best of his ability. He has taught me lessons through both the good and the difficult parts of life. He communicates the best way he knows how.

And that, in itself, is a gift.

There is another side to this realization for me.

My mom and I had those conversations too. We talked about life. We talked about difficult things. We talked deeply.

But dementia has changed that.

The conversations I once had with my mom, the ones where we could explore an idea, work through something difficult, or simply connect heart-to-heart, aren’t available in the same way anymore.

And that has made my relationship with my dad feel even more precious.

He has become, in some ways, my saving grace. I can still talk to him in a way I can no longer talk to my mom.

And maybe that’s the lesson I’m being reminded of.

Have the conversations.

Don’t assume there will always be more time.

Ask the questions you’ve been avoiding.

Tell someone what they mean to you.

Talk about what matters. Talk about wishes. Talk about fears. Talk about the things that feel uncomfortable.

Because someday, one of those conversations may become a gift you carry with you.

As a coach, I often talk about being intentional with our lives. Sometimes that means setting boundaries or taking care of our bodies. Sometimes it means slowing down enough to actually listen to what our hearts are telling us.

And sometimes, it simply means picking up the phone and having the conversation.

While you still can.

A few things to consider

  • What conversation have you been putting off?
  • Is there something you need to ask someone while they are still able to answer?
  • Is there something you need to say that you’ve assumed you will have time to say later?
  • Do the people closest to you actually know what matters most to you?
  • And if circumstances changed tomorrow, would you have peace knowing you had said what needed to be said?

We can’t control how much time we have with the people we love.

But we can be intentional about how we use the time we have.

Sometimes the greatest gift isn’t knowing what the future holds.

It’s knowing that you’ve had the conversations that matter.

When Your Energy Is Already on Empty

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When your energy level is on Empty and it’s only 8:00 in the morning… because today is already a very busy day.

Life as a caregiver.

The appointments.
The meals.
The reminders.
The driving.
The decisions.
The emotions.
The constant awareness of what someone else may need next.

And sometimes, before the day has even begun, you’re wondering, How am I going to do all of this?

This is where I’m learning to use my Compass Method.

Before I automatically push forward, I pause and check in:

🧭 Body: What is my body telling me?
❤️ Heart: What am I feeling?
🧠 Mind: What truly needs my attention right now?
✨ Spirit: What can I release and trust?

Then I ask myself one more question:

What is the next right step, not every step?

Caregiving can make us feel like we have to carry the entire day before breakfast. We don’t.

Some things can wait.
Some things can be simplified.
Some things can be shared.
And sometimes, caring for ourselves needs to move up the priority list.

Because the goal isn’t to have endless energy.

It’s to learn how to listen to ourselves along the way.

Helpful reminder:
You don’t have to carry the whole day at 8:00 a.m.

Sometimes Caregiving Means Stepping Back, Honoring Their Wishes

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Loving aging parents can be complicated.

I know this in two very different ways.

My mom lives with me and has Alzheimer’s. Her care often requires me to step in, anticipate, organize, and help her navigate each day.

Then there is my dad.

He is facing his own health challenges, but he is mentally capable, knows what he wants, and has been clear about how he wants to approach his care.

He doesn’t want to be babied.
He doesn’t want to be catered to.
Sometimes he just wants to be left alone.

That can be hard for a daughter.

My instinct is to help, reassure, and make things easier. But I’m learning that my dad doesn’t need me to take over. He needs me to respect his ability to make his own choices.

Sometimes caregiving means stepping back.

It means honoring their wishes, even when we would choose differently. It means allowing them to be scared, frustrated, stubborn, or set in their ways without immediately trying to fix it.

And it means giving ourselves permission to feel what comes with loving an aging parent.

I can respect my dad’s choices and still be scared.
I can be patient and still become frustrated.
I can be grateful for our honest conversations and still wish for more time.

Those feelings don’t make me a bad daughter. They make me human.

With Mom, caregiving is woven into my everyday life. I can’t simply step away from it. So I’m learning to remind myself that my life still exists within the caregiving.

I can still laugh. Exercise. Spend time with my husband. Take the dog for a walk. Sit by the lake. Make plans. Have moments that belong just to me.

I don’t have to wait for caregiving to end before I allow myself to live.

Helpful Reminders

  • Ask before helping: “Do you want help, or do you just want me to listen?”
  • Respect capable adults: Their choices don’t have to be our choices.
  • Separate their anxiety from ours: We can support them without carrying every fear.
  • Allow the feelings: Love, frustration, grief, gratitude, and fear can coexist.
  • Stay connected to yourself: Ask, “What do I need today that has nothing to do with caregiving?”

We can’t control the aging process or make every decision for the people we love.

But we can choose how we show up.

Sometimes we step in.

Sometimes we step back.

And sometimes the reminder we need most is:

“I’m here for you. And I’m here for me, too.”

When the Bus Driver Gets to Sit in the Back

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One of the things I make sure Mom gets to do each week is attend a fitness class, ideally three or four times.

Some days, getting there feels like a full production. I’m the caregiver, the scheduler, the organizer, the chauffeur. Some days, honestly, it feels like my hair is on fire and I’m driving the bus while trying to keep everyone safely on board. 🔥🚌

But today was different.

It was hot, so I left the dog home, and instead of running off to do the next thing on my endless list, I decided to sit in the back of the room while Mom worked out.

And I watched.

Mom walked in and immediately started saying hello to her friends. She gathered the equipment she needed. She smiled. She engaged in conversation. She laughed.

She was part of something.

And as I sat there watching her, I thought about how much this must resemble what a parent feels when their little one goes off to school for the first time.

You make sure they have what they need. You walk them to the door. And then, eventually, you have to step back.

And you pray.

You pray that people will be kind.

That someone will notice if they are confused or unsure.

That they will be included.

That they won’t feel left out.

That someone will sit beside them.

That they will find their people.

Today, I got to see that Mom has found some of her people.

And there was something incredibly beautiful about watching it happen.

For a little while, I wasn’t the caregiver making sure everything was okay. I wasn’t the scheduler or the driver or the person quietly keeping track of what came next.

I was just her daughter, sitting in the back of the room, watching my mom be Mom.

She was smiling.

She was talking.

She was engaging.

She was surrounded by people her own age, doing something good for her body and being part of a community.

And for a few precious moments, I saw a glimpse of the woman I remember.

Almost like her old self.

Maybe that’s one of the unexpected gifts of caregiving. Sometimes we become so focused on what our loved one can no longer do that we miss what is still beautifully present.

Mom may need me to get her there.

But once she walks through that door, she has a life that belongs to her.

Friends.

Movement.

Conversation.

Laughter.

Connection.

And today, I got to sit in the back and witness it.

Sometimes caregiving means driving the bus.

And sometimes the greatest gift is realizing you don’t have to be the one driving every minute.

Sometimes you can simply sit down, take a breath, and watch the person you love find her way into the room.

And today, Mom did.

And my heart was very full. ❤️

When Your Body Said, Enough”

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Learning to listen before your body has to shout

Sometimes the body whispers.

Sometimes it nudges.

And sometimes, apparently, it has had enough of waiting for us to pay attention.

That was me recently.

I had severe abdominal cramps that stopped me in my tracks. There was no negotiating with it. No pushing through. No “I’ll just finish this one thing.”

I had to go to home and get in bed.

And strangely, as uncomfortable as that experience was, something else happened.

I gave myself permission.

Permission to not work out the next morning.

Permission to sleep in.

Permission to move slowly.

Permission to listen to my body instead of listening to the list of things I thought I should be doing.

I took the dog for a walk and, rather than treating it like another task to check off the list, I stopped.

I sat.

I looked at the lake.

And for a few minutes, I did absolutely nothing.

I just breathed.

And I noticed how beautiful it was.

The water. The air. The morning. My dog beside me.

Breath in my lungs.

And a deep gratitude for my earthly Mom and Dad, for the life that has been laid out before me, and for the gift of simply being here to experience it.

Nothing needed fixing in that moment.

Nothing needed accomplishing.

I didn’t need to be productive.

I just needed to be present.

And I realized something.

We talk a lot about how the body keeps the score. We carry stress, grief, responsibility, tension and emotions in ways we don’t always consciously recognize. The body often knows before the mind is willing to admit that something isn’t working.

But I think there is another part of this conversation that deserves our attention:

What happens when we finally listen?

Because listening to your body isn’t always about identifying pain.

Sometimes it’s noticing that you’re exhausted.

Sometimes it’s recognizing that your shoulders have been carrying more than they need to.

Sometimes it’s realizing you’ve been holding your breath.

Sometimes it’s sleeping an extra hour.

Sometimes it’s taking a day off from exercise.

Sometimes it’s sitting beside a beautiful lake and realizing you haven’t actually looked at the lake in a very long time.

And sometimes, it’s drying your hair.

That sounds almost ridiculous, doesn’t it?

But there was something about drying my hair that morning that felt significant.

I felt human again.

Not caregiver.

Not wife.

Not coach.

Not the person who needed to remember the next thing.

Just me.

For a little while, I wasn’t operating on automatic pilot.

And maybe that’s the part we miss.

Our brains are incredibly good at helping us get through the day. They create routines, shortcuts and patterns so we don’t have to consciously think about every little thing.

But efficiency isn’t the same thing as presence.

We can become so good at doing life that we forget to actually experience it.

We wake up.

We work.

We care for people.

We exercise.

We cook.

We clean.

We answer the messages.

We take the dog out.

We make the appointments.

We check the list.

And somewhere along the way, our body starts whispering:

Are you listening?

Maybe the invitation isn’t to wait until our body forces us to stop.

Maybe the invitation is to start listening while the message is still quiet.

To notice.

To pause.

To breathe.

To ask:

What do I need today?

Not what does everyone else need from me?

Not what should I be accomplishing?

Not what would the most disciplined version of me do?

But simply:

What does my body need?

And then perhaps the harder question:

Am I willing to give myself permission to honor it?

Because compassion isn’t only something we extend to other people.

We have to learn how to extend it inward, too.

There will always be another task.

Another load of laundry.

Another email.

Another workout.

Another appointment.

Another responsibility.

But there is only one body carrying us through all of it.

And maybe caring for that body isn’t selfish.

Maybe it’s stewardship.

Maybe rest isn’t falling behind.

Maybe rest is how we return to ourselves.

That morning, sitting beside the lake with my dog, I didn’t accomplish much.

And somehow, I gained something far more valuable.

I remembered what it feels like to be here.

To breathe.

To notice.

To be grateful.

To feel human.

And to understand that sometimes the most important thing on the day’s agenda is simply listening when your body says:

Slow down. I’m trying to tell you something.

A Compass Moment

Before you move into the next thing today, pause.

Put your feet on the ground.

Take one slow breath.

And ask yourself:

Body: What am I feeling physically?

Heart: What emotion might be asking for my attention?

Mind: What story am I telling myself about what I should be doing?

Spirit: What might I notice if I became still long enough to be grateful?

You don’t have to solve anything.

You don’t have to change anything.

Just notice.

Sometimes awareness is the first act of self-care.