Painfully Sweet

I had my three-year-old daughter with me that day.

I was already watching the clock because before long we would need to leave to pick up my son from school.

My mother was not ready to go when we got there despite my calls.

I started moving through the apartment doing all the things that needed to be done.

Getting the shower ready.

Laying out clothes.

Setting out medications.

Picking up scattered messes.

Trying to keep everything moving.

Somewhere in the middle of all of it, both of my brothers called.

A conversation hurt more than it probably should have.

One of them pointed out that I had not been there the last two days.

And he was right.

I had not.

For the first time in a very long time, I had started trying to manage some things from home.

I was calling throughout each day. To remind her to shower, get dressed, take her medication, and make sure she went down to her meals.

And to see how confused she was. If she sounded scared, anxious, or emotional, my plans often changed and I would go be with her.

Other times I would pick her up and take her with me on errands because being together seemed to settle her mind.

She was living somewhere safe then. People were watching over her.

And my own family needed me too.

But still, the guilt settled heavily on me almost immediately.

It always did.

I kept moving around the apartment trying not to let my emotions show.

My daughter sat nearby looking through my mother's Mom, Read This If You're Confused book while I helped her get dressed after her shower.

I handed her medicine and a glass of water.

She resisted taking them.

And suddenly everything inside me cracked.

Not because of the medication.

Because of all of it.

The exhaustion.

The pressure.

The feeling that no matter how much I did, it never felt like enough.

The last thing I wanted was for my mother to see me cry. I usually tried to hide my emotions because when I was upset, she often became upset too.

But this time it came rushing out.

I started crying right there in front of her.

And for a moment, everything shifted.

She stood up and wrapped her arms around me.

Then she reached up and gently stroked the tears from my cheek.

"You're doing the best you can," she said softly.

"It's enough."

It was like she knew.

And just like that, for the first time in a long time, I did not feel like the caregiver anymore.

I felt like her daughter again.

The weight lifted for only a moment.

But it was enough.

Enough to remind me that somewhere inside everything that had changed, my mother was still there too.

The moment felt painfully sweet.

Reflection

Caregiving often comes with impossible expectations.

We try to be present for everyone. Our parents. Our children. Our spouses. Our jobs. Our friends. Ourselves.

And somewhere along the way, many of us begin measuring ourselves by what we didn't do instead of everything we did.

I spent years wondering if I was doing enough.

What I didn't fully understand at the time was that love is not measured by perfect attendance, perfect decisions, or endless availability.

Sometimes love looks like phone calls throughout the day.

Sometimes it looks like changing your plans because someone needs you.

Sometimes it looks like carrying a responsibility that few people truly see.

And sometimes, when we are fortunate, the people we are caring for remind us of something we have forgotten ourselves:

We are doing the best we can.

A Gentle Invitation

If you have ever cared for someone you love, take a moment to consider this:

What expectations have you placed on yourself that you would never place on someone else?

What would it feel like to offer yourself the same compassion you so freely give to others?

You do not have to answer those questions today.

Simply notice them.

And if you need the reminder, borrow the words my mother gave me that day:

"You're doing the best you can."

Sometimes that is enough.

You are always welcome here.

WGG