Life

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I Don’t Want to Pick Up One More Thing

This morning, it was the silverware.

Not the big stuff. Not a major disagreement. Not anything worthy of a relationship crisis.

Just silverware.

I asked my husband, probably with more exasperation than curiosity, “Why aren’t you putting your silverware in the dishwasher? You always used to.”

And then there was the pizza pan.

It was still sitting out.

My husband looked at me and said something that stopped me in my tracks.

“You always jump on me when I leave stuff out. But you leave stuff around all the time, and I never give you a hard time.”

And just like that, we were having one of those ridiculous little marital spats that somehow isn’t about the thing you’re arguing about at all.

Because in my head I was thinking:

I don’t want to pick up one more thing.

I don’t want to pick up after Mom.

I don’t want to pick up after the dog.

I don’t want to keep track of what everyone needs, what everyone forgot, what needs to be scheduled, cleaned, moved, washed, fed, remembered or handled.

And I don’t want to pick up after you, too.

But I couldn’t get those words out.

Instead, they came out as:

“Why aren’t you putting your silverware in the dishwasher?”

There’s a difference.

Maybe it’s not the silverware.

I’ve been thinking about how many women are doing exactly what I’m doing right now.

Caring for an aging parent.

Managing a household.

Working.

Being a wife.

Being a mother, perhaps.

Taking care of pets.

Trying to stay healthy.

Trying to remember everyone’s appointments.

Trying to remember our own appointments.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that, our bodies are changing, too.

Perimenopause and menopause don’t exactly send a formal invitation.

They just start rearranging the furniture.

Sleep changes. Energy changes. Mood can change. Stress can feel different. Your body may suddenly have opinions about things it previously tolerated quite well.

And then there’s caregiving.

So I started wondering:

How many women are caring for their parents while simultaneously navigating perimenopause or menopause?

As it turns out, researchers are beginning to ask that question, too.

A 2025 Mayo Clinic study looked at more than 4,200 women between the ages of 45 and 60. Nearly 20% identified as caregivers. And here’s the part that really caught my attention: menopause symptom burden increased as caregiving hours increased.

Among women providing 15 or more hours of care a week, about half reported moderate or worse menopause symptoms in at least one symptom area.

We don’t yet have a reliable number telling us exactly what percentage of female caregivers are simultaneously navigating perimenopause or menopause.

But we do know that the overlap is substantial enough to deserve our attention.

The average family caregiver in the United States is 51 years old.

Sixty-one percent of family caregivers are women.

And nearly a quarter of caregivers report providing 40 or more hours of care each week.

So maybe we need to start talking about this intersection.

Because there is another thing I’ve noticed about myself.

I’m reaching a no-bullshit phase of life.

Not an unkind phase.

Not an “I don’t care about anyone else” phase.

Just a phase where I am much more aware of what costs me.

My time.

My energy.

My peace.

My body.

And maybe that awareness isn’t a problem.

Maybe it’s information.

I used to do it. Why don’t I anymore?

This is where things get tricky.

My husband remembers the woman who used to just do things.

She’d pick it up.

She’d take care of it.

She’d remember.

She’d handle it.

And now, sometimes, I don’t want to.

That can feel confusing to the people around us.

“Well, you always used to.”

Yes.

I did.

But “I used to” isn’t necessarily a lifetime contract.

Sometimes our capacity changes.

Sometimes our responsibilities change.

Sometimes our bodies change.

And sometimes we finally realize that something we have been doing automatically for years is actually something we don’t want to be responsible for anymore.

That doesn’t mean we love people less.

It means we’re beginning to understand the difference between helping and carrying.

And that distinction matters.

Because I can love my husband deeply and still want him to put his own silverware in the dishwasher.

I can love my mom deeply and still recognize that caregiving takes something from me.

I can love my dog and laugh at the ridiculous amount of care a puppy requires while simultaneously thinking, “Seriously? You need me to do that too?”

And I can love all of them without wanting to be needed every minute of the day.

Sometimes what we really want is nobody to need anything from us.

That’s the part I’ve struggled to explain.

There are moments when quiet feels almost medicinal.

No one asking a question.

No one needing a decision.

No one needing a ride.

No one needing to be fed.

No one needing something cleaned up.

No one asking, “Can you just…?”

Just me.

For a little while.

Not because I don’t love my people.

Because I need to hear myself think.

And perhaps that’s one of the lessons of this season of life:

Rest isn’t always about sleep.

Sometimes rest is being temporarily released from responsibility.

Maybe that’s why that silly silverware argument hit such a nerve.

It wasn’t about the dishwasher.

It was about capacity.

It was about the accumulation of a thousand tiny responsibilities.

It was about feeling like I am always the person who notices.

And perhaps most importantly, it was about realizing that I need to communicate that before resentment does the talking for me.

Because my husband can’t respond to what I don’t say.

He can’t know that I’m overwhelmed if all he hears is criticism about a pizza pan.

And I can’t expect him to understand that what I’m really saying is:

“I need you to carry some of this with me.”

Helpful reminders for the woman in the middle

1. Irritation can be information.
Before judging yourself for being “too cranky,” ask what the irritation might be telling you. Are you tired? Overextended? Feeling responsible for too much?

2. “I used to” doesn’t mean “I always will.”
Roles evolve. Families change. Bodies change. Capacity changes. It’s okay to renegotiate what you’ve always done.

3. Say the thing underneath the thing.
Instead of “Why can’t you put your dishes away?” sometimes the deeper truth is, “I’m exhausted from feeling responsible for everyone.”

4. Ask for partnership, not permission.
You don’t need permission to have needs. You do need to communicate them clearly.

5. Build moments where nobody needs anything from you.
Even a small pocket of uninterrupted time can matter. Protect it.

6. Pay attention to your body.
Midlife changes deserve attention, not dismissal. If you’re experiencing significant menopause symptoms, talk with a qualified healthcare professional. You don’t have to simply white-knuckle your way through this season.

7. And finally… put your own damn silverware in the dishwasher.

Because sometimes the smallest acts of shared responsibility create the biggest sense of relief.

Maybe the goal isn’t to stop caring.

Maybe it’s to stop believing that caring means carrying everything.

And maybe that’s where compassion for ourselves begins.

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.

People often try to solve grief when what grief actually needs is witnessing.

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Today is my birthday.

It’s also the third year in a row that my mom, because of Alzheimer’s, doesn’t know it’s the day she gave birth to me.

Someone I love asked, “How do I fix this?”

The answer is… you don’t.

Some things aren’t meant to be fixed. They’re meant to be witnessed.

As a life coach, I’ve learned that one of the healthiest things we can do is stop treating grief like a problem to solve. Grief is love looking for a place to land.

Today, I’m sad.

I’m also grateful that I still get to hold my mom’s hand.

Those emotions don’t compete. They coexist.

We often think strength means choosing gratitude over grief. But real emotional health allows us to hold both at the same time.

If someone you love is carrying a loss that can’t be fixed, resist the urge to find the perfect words. Instead, offer your presence.

“I see this hurts.”

“I’m here with you.”

“Your feelings make sense.”

Sometimes the greatest gift we can give another person isn’t an answer.

It’s permission to feel.

Today I’ll celebrate another year of life. I’ll grieve another year of loss. And I’ll be grateful for every moment I still have with my mom.

All three belong here. ❤️

When the Caregiver Becomes the Compass

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Finding the Shore Through the Fog of Alzheimer’s


Standing at the water’s edge, I knew the lake was there.


I couldn’t see it. The fog had wrapped itself around the shoreline, blurring every familiar landmark. If someone had arrived for the first time that morning, they might have wondered if there was even a lake beyond the mist.


But I knew better.


I had seen it on clear days. I knew where the shoreline curved, where the water met the rocks, and how the sunlight danced across its surface. The fog had changed my view, but it hadn’t changed the truth.


That’s what caregiving for someone living with Alzheimer’s or dementia feels like.


The disease is the fog.


It rolls in quietly, hiding memories, routines, names, and places that once felt as permanent as the shoreline itself. To your loved one, the world can become unfamiliar and uncertain. But as caregivers, we remember what the fog has concealed.


We become their compass.


A compass doesn’t remove the fog. It simply points toward what is true.


When your loved one forgets which room is theres, you gently walk beside them.
When they can’t remember that breakfast comes after getting dressed, you lovingly guide her through the next step.


When yesterday disappears and tomorrow has no meaning, you become the steady voice that says, “We’re okay. This way.”


As a life coach, I’ve learned that so much of life is spent chasing perfect clarity. We tell ourselves we’ll feel confident once the fog lifts.


Caregiving teaches a different lesson.


Sometimes the greatest strength isn’t seeing farther.
It’s knowing enough to take the next faithful step.


This photograph reminds me that even when the lake is invisible, the path is still beneath our feet. The trees continue to grow. The bench waits patiently. Life hasn’t stopped because visibility has changed.


The same is true in caregiving.


Love becomes less about restoring what was and more about faithfully guiding what remains.


You become the keeper of routines. The holder of stories. The gentle reminder of home. The compass that points toward safety when someone else’s internal map no longer can.


One day, the fog will lift for all of us.


Until then, may we have the courage to walk slowly, speak gently, and trust that what love has built cannot be erased by what memory has lost.


Reflection


If you’re caring for someone with dementia today, remember this: You don’t have to clear the fog. You only have to keep pointing toward love. That’s what a compass does. It doesn’t change the weather. It simply helps someone find their way home. ❤️

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Sharing the Truths that Helped Me Heal

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Why do I share my truths?

Because, for the first time in a long time, I feel like I finally get it.
Life is hard.
We all have life lessons, whether they are big or small, that change us. They make us rethink what we believe, how we show up, and what we might do differently the next time.
I’ve had my share of unhealthy relationships, relationships with little communication, lots of control, and old beliefs I was following without even realizing it. Eventually, I reached a point where I no longer knew who I was.
They say people sometimes stay in unhealthy relationships because the familiar feels safer than the unknown. Even when the familiar hurts, at least you know what to expect.
I get it.
And I’m grateful that I’ve experienced healthy relationships since then. But healthy doesn’t mean perfect, and it doesn’t always mean forever.
One of the hardest and most humbling things I’ve ever done was end my first marriage after 8½ years together. When I left that relationship, I also lost a stepson I loved. In many ways, I felt like I had lost myself, too.
I had become an over-glorified housekeeper, cook, errand runner, and laundry maid. I felt overwhelmed, frustrated, and deeply underappreciated.
When I finally left, I shut down.
I felt like a quitter. And honestly, it completely sucked.
I didn’t believe in divorce, but I also couldn’t unhear or undo the things that had torn the relationship apart. I couldn’t go back to pretending I didn’t know what I knew.
Several months later, life became quieter.
I spent time with a dear friend who was battling cancer. I rescued a puppy. Little by little, I started living again.
And somewhere along the way, I let go of the belief that I had to have everything together all the time. I didn’t have to put on a brave face or pretend I was okay.
I could simply be human.
I felt broken, with all my cracks showing. It was terrifying.
And it was freeing.
So why do I share this?
Because I know there is someone out there experiencing something similar.
Someone who has been made to feel small or powerless. Someone who has reached their limit but is terrified of what comes next.
If that’s you, please know this:
You don’t have to have the whole path figured out before you take the next step.
Surround yourself with people who are kind, loving, and able to see you for who you really are. Create boundaries that protect you from returning to the same patterns. Give yourself permission to learn from what happened instead of allowing it to define you.
And, perhaps most importantly, learn to love yourself enough to stop abandoning yourself just to keep someone else comfortable.
Sometimes healing doesn’t look like having it all together.
Sometimes it looks like finally letting yourself be seen, cracks and all.