Today is my “day off.”
Except it’s not.
Today is neurologist day.
And if you’re a caregiver, you know there are certain appointments that carry a different kind of weight. You can feel the nervousness before you even leave the house. Your mind starts rehearsing conversations you may need to have. You wonder what the doctor will say. You wonder what Mom will understand. You wonder what you should say, what you shouldn’t say, and how you can possibly speak the truth while protecting the heart of someone you love.
So, yes. I’m a little apprehensive.
Maybe more than a little.
But this morning, I reminded myself that being nervous doesn’t mean I’m unprepared.
It means I care.
So I did what I could.
I made Mom a good breakfast.
I made her coffee.
I gave her her Lion’s Mane tincture.
And I prayed.
Not for a perfect appointment.
Just for the best possible outcome.
For wisdom.
For patience.
For clarity.
For the right words.
And maybe most importantly, I prayed that I would remember that I can be both loving and truthful.
That one is hard.
Because when you’re advocating for someone you love, there can be a temptation to soften everything. To protect them from information. To minimize what you’re seeing because you don’t want to hurt them.
But speaking the truth with love is not unkind.
Advocating isn’t betraying.
And telling the doctor what is really happening at home isn’t throwing Mom under the bus.
It is part of loving her well.
Sometimes love looks like holding someone’s hand.
Sometimes it looks like making sure they eat breakfast before an appointment.
And sometimes love looks like sitting in a neurologist’s office and saying, “This is what I’m seeing.”
Even when it’s uncomfortable.
Even when Mom may not agree.
Even when I wish the truth were different.
Because caregiving has taught me that there are moments when love has to be brave.
And I am learning that advocacy doesn’t mean taking over someone’s voice. It means helping make sure their needs, their reality, and their dignity aren’t lost in the conversation.
So today, I’m trying to walk into that office with my shoulders down, my feet underneath me, and my heart open.
I’m going to encourage Mom.
I’m going to remind her of what she can do.
I’m going to celebrate the things that are going well.
And I’m also going to tell the truth.
Because we don’t need to choose between hope and reality.
We can hold both.
That’s one of the lessons caregiving keeps handing me.
Hope doesn’t require denial.
And truth doesn’t require fear.
Sometimes the most compassionate thing we can do is simply see what is, name what is, and then figure out what comes next.
So here we go.
Coffee ✔️
Breakfast ✔️
Mom encouraged ✔️
Questions prepared ✔️
Truth ready ✔️
Prayer ✔️
Now I just have to remember to breathe.
A few coaching reminders for the caregiver
1. Prepare before you walk through the door.
Write down changes you’ve noticed, questions you have, medications, concerns, and examples. When you’re emotional, your brain can suddenly develop the memory capacity of a goldfish.
2. Speak from observation, not judgment.
Instead of “Mom is getting worse,” try, “I’ve noticed these changes over the past several months…”
Specific examples are much more useful than labels.
3. Tell the truth with love.
You don’t have to exaggerate the hard parts, and you don’t have to minimize them either. Your job isn’t to make the appointment sound better. Your job is to help the healthcare team understand the whole picture.
4. Remember that advocacy is an act of love.
You aren’t being difficult because you’re asking questions. You aren’t disrespectful because you have concerns. You are participating in your loved one’s care.
5. Keep the person bigger than the diagnosis.
Mom is still Mom. Dementia may change things, but it doesn’t erase her personality, her relationships, her humor, her dignity, or her worth.
6. Give yourself permission to feel whatever shows up.
Nervous. Sad. Angry. Hopeful. Tired. Relieved. All of it can coexist.
And finally…
7. Don’t forget the caregiver needs care, too.
A “day off” that includes a neurologist appointment isn’t exactly a spa day.
But maybe there is another kind of rest available.
The rest that comes from knowing:
I showed up.
I told the truth.
I advocated.
I loved her.
I did what I could.
And sometimes, for today, that is enough.
caregivers
When Your Body Says, “Slow Down”
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.
Sometimes Caregiving Means Stepping Back, Honoring Their Wishes
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
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. ❤️
People often try to solve grief when what grief actually needs is witnessing.
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 Petals Fall: Lessons from the Basswood Tree for Caregivers
This morning, I stood beneath a basswood tree in full bloom. Its large heart-shaped leaves stretched toward the summer sky, while delicate blossoms drifted gently to the ground below.
At first glance, it seemed contradictory.
How could a tree be so full of life and yet be letting pieces of itself go?
Then I realized that caregiving often feels exactly the same.
As caregivers, we spend so much energy trying to hold everything together. We want to remember every appointment, respond with endless patience, make the right decisions, keep the house running, care for our loved one, nurture our relationships, and somehow still care for ourselves.
We carry an invisible expectation that if we are doing it well, nothing should fall.
No tears. No exhaustion. No forgotten details. No frustration. No need for help.
But nature tells a different story.
The basswood tree stands strong and beautiful while its blossoms fall freely around it. It does not cling to every petal. It does not apologize for letting go. It does not measure its worth by what remains attached to its branches.
The falling petals are not a sign of weakness.
They are evidence of a season being lived fully.
Caregiving asks us to release many things along the journey.
We let go of the idea that life will return to what it once was.
We let go of perfection.
We let go of control.
We let go of the expectation that we can do everything on our own.
Sometimes we even let go of pieces of our loved one as illness slowly changes who they are.
These losses can feel heartbreaking. Yet they are also part of the sacred work of caregiving.
The basswood reminds us that letting go is not the opposite of loving.
Often, it is one of love’s deepest expressions.
When we release unrealistic expectations, we make room for grace.
When we stop demanding perfection from ourselves, we create space for compassion.
When we allow the petals of guilt, comparison, and self-judgment to fall away, we discover that our roots are stronger than we imagined.
Perhaps today you feel like a tree in bloom and in loss at the same time.
You are still showing up.
You are still growing.
You are still rooted.
And if a few petals are falling around your feet, that doesn’t mean you’re failing.
It may simply mean you’re in the middle of becoming.
So stand tall, dear caregiver.
Let the petals fall where they may.
Trust the roots.
Trust the season.
And trust that God is nurturing life within you, even when something beautiful is being released.
#Caregiving is not about holding on to everything. It’s about learning what can be lovingly released. 🌿💛
Life Coach Vickie 24/7 