People keep telling you how strong you are. How patient. How good. How amazing it is that you stepped up to take care of your mom, your dad, your aunt—whoever.
But it doesn’t feel amazing. It feels like drowning in someone else’s life. Like your days don’t belong to you anymore. Like every quiet moment gets interrupted by the sound of your name being called from the next room.
You’re not the good daughter. You’re the only one who stayed.
When Helping Out Turns Into Giving Up Everything
At first, it was just small things. Picking up prescriptions. Managing appointments. Driving them to the doctor. Sitting with them on harder days. Then the harder days became most days. And the in-between moments started to vanish.
Now you haven’t had a weekend off in eight months. You can’t remember the last time you slept through the night without listening for footsteps or a fall. You try to keep your full-time job, your sanity, your friendships, but everything else starts slipping.
Not because you’re weak. Because this is too much for one person. Always has been.
The Things No One Tells You About Caring for Someone Losing Their Mind
They don’t talk about how your loved one starts saying things that feel like daggers. Or how they forget your name. Or accuse you of stealing. Or scream at you for turning off the stove you just saved them from.
They don’t tell you how isolating it is to have no one who understands the specific grief of watching someone exist in a body that no longer matches their mind.
And no one tells you that even if they’re still breathing, you’re already mourning them.
The Fantasy of Being the “Better Option”
Maybe you think if you don’t do it, no one will. Maybe the idea of a care home feels like giving up. Maybe someone once told you they’d never forgive you if you “put them in a place.” So you hold the line. You manage. You spiral quietly.
But caregiving isn’t a punishment you’re meant to endure until collapse. It’s a responsibility you’re allowed to navigate with boundaries. Because the goal was never for you to disappear.
You’re Allowed to Want Out
Wanting out doesn’t mean you don’t love them. It means you’ve hit the point where your body, your spirit, your sense of self can’t keep shrinking to fit this version of life.
ou don’t have to do it this way. There are people who do this professionally, who are trained for it, who build environments around memory loss and confusion and care that feels like safety. Environments built around nurturing dignity daily, not surviving in silence.
You’re Not Selfish. You’re Tapped Out
There’s no medal for sacrificing your mental health for someone else’s declining health. There’s no reward for waiting until you break. What comes next isn’t about guilt. It’s about survival. Yours. Theirs. Everyone’s.
You’re not failing them by asking for help. You’re failing yourself if you don’t.
So here’s what you can actually do when you’ve hit that edge:
- Start tracking how often you feel overwhelmed. If “every day” is the answer, something has to change.
- Say yes when someone offers help. Even if it’s not perfect. Even if it’s just for an hour.
- Look at respite care options before it becomes an emergency. Giving yourself a break is not a betrayal.
- Set visiting hours for yourself. You don’t have to be on-call 24/7. You’re a person, not a crisis hotline.
- Talk to people who get it. Other caregivers, support groups, even online spaces where the honesty is brutal but real.
- Stop waiting for the perfect moment to make a decision. There won’t be one. You act now, or you collapse later.
If you’re in Ontario and need support, the Ontario Caregiver Organization offers a range of resources, including a 24/7 helpline, peer support programs, and practical tools to help you navigate your caregiving journey.
And when you’re ready—really ready—to choose something that protects you as much as it protects them, you’ll know where to look.
