And Why I’m Learning to Stop Carrying It Alone

Caregiving doesn’t usually arrive with a clear beginning.

It slips in slowly—
through concern, responsibility, love, loyalty.
Through “I can handle this” and “it’s just for now.”

That’s how it happened for me.

I didn’t wake up one day and decide, I am a caregiver now.
It layered itself quietly on top of a life that was already full—teaching, work I love, family, community, purpose.

Right now, this season of caregiving looks like supporting my mom as she moves through dementia.
It’s tender.
It’s unpredictable.
And it asks something different of me every day.

And even though I know—deep down—that this is a season, not the whole story of my life,
the body doesn’t always understand that right away.

One day I realized my body felt heavier.
My nervous system tighter.
My inner world smaller.

Not because I chose to lose myself—
but because I was trying to hold everything together,
loving someone through change while quietly bracing for what I can’t yet see.

Caregiving Is More Than What You Do

It’s what your nervous system is carrying.

I’ve learned this the hard way.

Caregiving isn’t only about appointments, conversations, or logistics.
It’s neurological.

My nervous system is constantly scanning:

• What’s coming next?

• What might fall apart?

• Who needs me now?

Even in moments that look quiet—lying in bed, sitting with a cup of tea—my body often doesn’t fully rest. There’s a low hum of alertness beneath everything.

This is why so many caregivers say:

“I’m exhausted, but I can’t relax.”

I’ve said it myself.

For a long time, I thought something was wrong with me—why meditation didn’t land, why sleep didn’t restore me, why my body stayed braced even when I was “off.”

Nothing was wrong.

My nervous system was doing exactly what it had learned to do.

The Kind of Tired That Sleep Doesn’t Fix

There’s a specific kind of tired that comes with caregiving.

Not the tired that a nap fixes.
Not even the tired that a good night’s sleep touches.

It’s the tired that comes from holding uncertainty.
From loving someone through change.
From carrying grief that doesn’t have clean edges.

In my own life, caregiving has been intertwined with ambiguity—loving someone who is still here, but not the same. Living with questions that don’t have answers yet.

The body stays braced in these spaces.
There’s no clear moment to exhale.

And layered on top of that is the quiet belief that I shouldn’t be tired at all.

After all:

• Someone else has it worse.

• I’m capable.

• I’m strong.

• I can manage.

So I keep going.

I didn’t decide to disappear from my own life.

It happened subtly.

I delayed rest.
I minimized my needs.
I told myself I’d slow down later—after the next thing, the next crisis, the next season.

I stopped asking myself simple questions like:

• How am I actually doing?

• What do I need today?

Not because I don’t value myself—
but because caring for others took up all the available space.

This isn’t weakness.
It’s adaptation.

But over time, the cost showed up in my body:

• chronic tension

• disrupted sleep

• anxiety that sat just under the surface

• moments of numbness followed by waves of emotion

• guilt for wanting space, and resentment for not having it

Naming this has been uncomfortable—and freeing.

Including Myself in the Circle of Care

One of the most healing shifts for caregivers is this:

You don’t have to stop caring for others to start caring for yourself.

Care can become more spacious.
More sustainable.
More humane.

This doesn’t mean doing more self-care.
It means creating moments of permission:

• permission to pause

• permission to rest without earning it

• permission to put something down, even briefly

Sometimes that looks like a full practice.
Sometimes it’s one conscious breath.
Sometimes it’s simply naming: “This is a lot.”

Letting Go Doesn’t Mean Letting Down

One of the deepest fears caregivers carry is this:

If I rest, everything will fall apart.

But letting go doesn’t mean abandoning responsibility.
It means releasing what was never yours to carry alone:

• impossible expectations

• constant self-sacrifice

• the belief that your worth is tied to how much you endure

Letting go is not a single moment.
It’s a practice.
A rhythm.
A returning.

A Gentle Truth I’m Living By

If you are caregiving in any form—
for a parent, partner, child, student, client, or community—

Please hear this, from someone walking it too:

You are not failing because you’re tired.
You are not selfish for needing rest.
You are not weak for feeling overwhelmed.

You are human.
And your nervous system deserves care, too.

Some days, all I can do is pause for one breath and whisper,
“I’m doing the best I can.”

And on those days, I’m learning to let that be enough.

You are allowed to be here, too.

If You’d Like More Support

If you’re caregiving right now and something in this resonated, I want you to know you don’t have to navigate this alone.

I’m currently opening the wait list for my upcoming course, Care for Caregivers—a gentle, nervous-system-informed space created specifically for people who are holding a lot, loving deeply, and quietly running on empty.

Release date - January 1, 2026

This course is for caregivers who want:

• permission to rest without guilt

• tools to calm an overworked nervous system

• space to feel supported, seen, and included again

Joining the wait list doesn’t obligate you to anything.
It simply keeps you connected and informed when the doors open.

👉 You can add your name to the Care for Caregivers wait list here:

However you choose to care for yourself today—even if it’s just one pause—know that it matters.

With much love, Shauna