When I first left my career to become a primary caregiver, I thought I understood the journey ahead. My background in psychology and my natural inclination as an empath made me feel like I was well-equipped to take on the emotional and mental challenges of caring for loved ones. What I didn’t fully grasp at the time was how little I knew about the depth of the caregiving experience. It was both more rewarding and more draining than I could have anticipated, shifting my perspective on life, purpose, and the true weight of love and responsibility.
The Beginning: A Choice that Became a Requirement
Initially, stepping into the caregiver role felt like a choice—a conscious decision to prioritize my family’s needs over my career. I had spent years building a professional identity, but when those closest to me needed care, it felt natural to put everything else aside. But what started as a choice quickly became a necessity. The emotional and mental strain of caregiving outweighed any financial considerations. The needs were constant and unrelenting, and the balancing act between emotional resources and financial ones became impossible to ignore.
The hardest part of this journey was realizing how quickly caregiving shifts from being an option to a requirement. In the beginning, it felt like something I could balance alongside the rest of my life, but that illusion quickly faded. Caregiving isn’t a job where you can clock out at the end of the day or take a break when you’re overwhelmed. It’s an around-the-clock commitment, one that asks more from you than any other role I’ve ever known. The needs don’t stop because you’re tired, emotionally drained, or mentally exhausted. Even when I felt like I had nothing left to give, the demands of caregiving didn’t go away—they only grew.
The emotional toll is something no paycheck or career accolade can balance. It goes beyond physical exhaustion; it’s a mental and emotional drain that touches the deepest parts of who you are. You’re not just responsible for someone’s physical well-being but also their emotional comfort, their dignity, and their sense of security. Watching someone you love struggle with illness or fade before your eyes requires a level of strength and patience that no one is fully prepared for. The moments of helplessness—when there’s nothing you can do but sit with the pain and try to offer comfort—are some of the hardest I’ve ever faced. Caregiving becomes an act of surrender to a process you can’t control, and that realization alone is both terrifying and humbling.
There’s also the isolation. Caregiving can make you feel disconnected from the outside world. Friends and colleagues may not fully understand the weight of it, and there’s a certain loneliness that comes with knowing your world now revolves around someone else’s needs. And yet, despite the heaviness, caregiving also carries a profound sense of purpose. It strips away everything unnecessary and brings life into stark clarity. You realize that in the end, the most important thing you can offer isn’t a solution or a cure, but your presence, your care, and your love—however imperfect that may feel at times.
The Challenge of Being “Qualified”
In those early days, I believed my psychological training and empathetic nature gave me a head start on what it meant to be a caregiver. I thought I was ready. But what I discovered was that caregiving is an entirely different kind of work. Being a born empath and growing up with grandparents who were already elderly when I was born, who I helped my mother to care for as a child, gave me a window into the emotional needs of those I was caring for, but it also opened me up to carrying their pain—sometimes too much of it. My understanding of psychology was helpful, but it didn’t fully prepare me for the medical complexities, the daily grind, or the emotional exhaustion that comes with watching loved ones deteriorate.
What I hadn’t anticipated was how much of myself I would lose in the process of caregiving. As an empath, I was already prone to absorbing the emotions of those around me. But when those emotions were laced with fear, pain, and uncertainty, it became overwhelming. The lines between where my emotions ended and theirs began blurred. There were moments when I felt like I was drowning in the collective grief, with no clear way to come up for air. I carried their pain home with me, into my thoughts, into my dreams. It was as if their suffering became mine, and I had no outlet to release it. The weight of their emotions stayed with me long after the caregiving tasks for the day were done, and there were times when I questioned whether I could keep going.
As time went on, I learned about the medical side of caregiving through necessity. From understanding medication schedules to recognizing signs of discomfort, I became more familiar with the practical side of care. I had to become proficient in things I never imagined—like monitoring vital signs, handling multiple types of medical (and mobility) equipment, and administering medication at precise times (doubly difficult with my mother, who suffered from Alzheimer’s – that was a college level course, all by itself). I learned to decipher medical jargon and advocate for my loved ones during doctor’s appointments. And yet, no matter how much I learned, it always felt like I was catching up to the next crisis. The learning curve was steep, and the stakes were high, especially when a misstep could mean added discomfort or pain for those I loved.
Hospice, in particular, was a lifeline during some of the most difficult moments. I will forever sing their praises. Their guidance and support were invaluable, offering both knowledge and emotional support that helped me navigate the most challenging parts of the journey. The hospice team provided more than just medical care; they offered compassion in a way that few others could. They helped me understand the stages of the dying process, but more importantly, they helped me find peace in it. Their presence allowed me to shift from focusing on what I couldn’t control—like the inevitable decline in health—to what I could still offer: comfort, dignity, and love. Hospice gave me permission to let go of the idea that I needed to “fix” everything and helped me accept that sometimes the greatest act of love is simply being there, bearing witness.
Through this experience, I realized that while psychology gave me tools to understand emotional responses, and empathy allowed me to connect deeply with those in my care, caregiving required a resilience and adaptability that no formal education could teach. It was an education in patience, endurance, and surrender. I had to learn to navigate the difficult balance between caring deeply and maintaining enough emotional distance to avoid burning out completely. Over time, I came to see that while I was offering care to others, I also needed to care for myself—though that realization didn’t always translate into action. Learning how to set emotional boundaries became just as crucial as understanding the medical protocols.
Rewards Amidst the Sacrifice
Despite the challenges, caregiving has brought me closer to my loved ones in ways I never imagined. There is something deeply rewarding about being able to give back to the people who shaped you, who gave you life or love. It creates a profound sense of connection, one that transcends the practical tasks of caregiving. When you step into the role of a caregiver, you’re not just meeting physical needs—you’re participating in a sacred exchange of love and care. In those quiet moments, when the world outside fades and it’s just you and your loved one, there is an intimacy that words can’t capture. It’s in the shared silences, the gentle touch of a hand, the knowing glance that reassures them that they are not alone. I’ve come to see this role not as something I chose out of obligation, but as a calling—something that was meant for me in this chapter of my life.
It’s hard to put into words how caring for someone at their most vulnerable changes you. There’s a humility that comes with it, a deep sense of purpose that goes beyond anything I’ve ever felt before. When you care for someone who is no longer able to care for themselves, you become their lifeline—their comfort in times of pain, their steady presence when they are afraid. You are tasked with holding them through their hardest moments, and in doing so, you find a strength within yourself that you didn’t know existed.
Caring for others forced me to slow down and reflect on the fleeting nature of time. The daily grind of life, the busyness that we often mistake for meaning, suddenly fades in comparison to the significance of just being there for someone. Time, when you’re caregiving, moves differently. It stretches and contracts unpredictably. There are long hours of waiting, where the smallest tasks seem monumental, and then there are moments that feel like they slip away too quickly—moments where you’re acutely aware that you’re witnessing the last chapters of someone’s life.
I came to realize that caregiving isn’t just about tending to someone’s physical needs—it’s about being present with them in their final moments, about providing comfort when words are no longer enough. There’s something sacred in that presence, in the act of simply sitting beside someone as they face the unknown. I’ve learned that sometimes the most important thing you can offer isn’t a solution, but your presence. It’s about holding their hand, offering a soft word, or even just sitting in silence with them, allowing them to feel seen, heard, and loved, even when their own world is slipping away.
There is a quiet beauty in those moments—moments when time seems to stand still, and everything else falls away. You begin to understand that caregiving is not just a responsibility, but a privilege. You are being invited into the most intimate part of someone’s life—their final journey. To witness that transition, to be part of their story in such a profound way, is both humbling and life-altering.
Through caregiving, I’ve learned that love isn’t just expressed in grand gestures or words, but in the small, tender actions of care. It’s in making sure they’re comfortable, ensuring their dignity is preserved, and showing up, day after day, even when you’re exhausted. And in those small actions, there’s a reward that is far greater than anything material—a deep sense of connection, of purpose, and of love that endures beyond loss.
A Changed Perspective
Being a caregiver has irrevocably changed my perspective on life and purpose. I’ve seen firsthand how fragile life can be, how quickly things can change, and how important it is to embrace every moment. Before becoming a caregiver, my view of life’s meaning was tied to external accomplishments—career goals, achievements, and the tangible progress I could measure. I thought my purpose was something I could build and define through hard work and dedication. But caregiving reshaped that understanding entirely.
When you witness the fragility of life up close, as I have, it becomes impossible to ignore how fleeting it all is. One moment, a person you love is vibrant, full of life, and the next, they’re facing a battle that no amount of effort or love can reverse. I’ve learned that we often take time for granted, moving through life with the assumption that there will always be more time—more time to work, more time to rest, more time to say the things we’ve left unsaid. But caregiving teaches you that time is not promised, and neither is health. It’s a reality that forces you to reconsider what truly matters.
It’s shifted my understanding of purpose, from one centered around career achievement to one focused on connection and presence. When I left my career to care for my loved ones, I thought I was giving something up—sacrificing my personal ambitions for the sake of my family. But in truth, what I’ve gained through caregiving has been far more valuable. In the moments where I sat with my loved ones, tending to their needs, comforting them through pain, I discovered a sense of meaning that no professional title or paycheck could provide.
Caregiving requires you to slow down, to be fully present in a way that our fast-paced world doesn’t often allow. It’s in those moments of stillness, where you’re simply sitting beside someone, offering nothing more than your time and your attention, that the true purpose of life becomes clear. It’s not about how much you can achieve or how far you can advance, but about how deeply you can connect with the people who matter. It’s about showing up for them when they need you the most, about being a source of strength and comfort when everything else seems uncertain.
The love and care I’ve provided to my family through their most vulnerable moments have given me a deep sense of meaning that no career could have offered. There’s something profoundly transformative about being there for someone when they are at their most vulnerable. You see life stripped down to its essence—what truly matters becomes unmistakably clear. It’s not the accolades or the promotions, but the relationships you build, the love you give, and the moments of connection that endure long after everything else fades.
Though the role of caregiving is not one I would have chosen in a perfect world, it is one that has shaped me, challenged me, and ultimately brought me closer to who I am meant to be. I didn’t set out to be a caregiver, but through this experience, I have discovered parts of myself that I never knew existed. The patience, the resilience, the ability to endure through uncertainty—these are qualities that caregiving has drawn out of me, qualities I might never have developed had my life taken a different course.
There’s a certain irony in how something so difficult, something I never would have chosen willingly, has become the very thing that has given my life its deepest sense of purpose. It has challenged me to grow in ways I didn’t anticipate, and though it has been painful at times, it has also been profoundly rewarding. I am no longer the person I was before caregiving became a part of my life. I am stronger, more compassionate, more attuned to the preciousness of every moment.
In the end, caregiving has brought me closer to who I am meant to be—not just as a caregiver, but as a human being. It has reminded me that life is not about what we accumulate or accomplish, but about how we show up for one another, especially in moments of need. It has taught me that our greatest purpose lies in connection, in love, and in the quiet, sometimes unseen acts of care that leave a lasting imprint on the lives of those we love.
The Twin Tree Project 