How Caregivers Begin Again

This weekend, I had a long stretch of driving and train time—enough hours to think about 2026 and what I want the next chapter of my life to look like. There were podcasts in my ears, moments of quiet reflection, and yes, a nap or two. Even when my body slowed down, my mind didn’t. It kept circling the same thoughts.

There were flashes of excitement—those moments when you imagine a life with more space, more purpose, more peace. And then there were moments of doubt that followed right behind them. Can I really do this? Can I really build something new after everything that’s already happened?

Sample contract with yourself. Ai generated.

My brain answers confidently: yes.

But then the more honest question shows up.

How?

Caregivers know this question well. We live in it.

We’re experts at the what: what needs to be done today, what medications are due, what appointments are coming up, what emergencies might happen next. We’re also fluent in the why: because we love someone, because someone has to do it, because walking away isn’t an option.

But the how—how we care for ourselves, how we rebuild parts of our lives that went quiet, how we move forward instead of just surviving—that’s where things get complicated.

Especially at the start of a new year.

January has a way of whispering promises. A fresh start. A better version of ourselves. More balance. More time. More me. But caregivers know that imagining change is much easier than living it. Wanting a better life doesn’t require energy. Creating one does—and energy is often the one thing we don’t have much of.

The truth is, my thinking about 2026 didn’t begin this weekend. It started months ago. I could feel something shifting—emotionally, creatively, personally. After years of caregiving, of being needed constantly, of structuring life around someone else’s decline, I felt an uncomfortable truth rising to the surface.

Something had to change.

Not because I didn’t love deeply. Not because I regretted showing up. But because I could no longer ignore the gaps between who I was during caregiving and who I wanted to be after it.

The hardest part wasn’t logistics or planning. It was honesty. Admitting that I couldn’t rely on the same survival patterns anymore. Admitting that “getting through the day” was no longer enough. Admitting that caregiving had trained me to be reactive—and that I now needed to relearn how to be intentional.

Caregiving creates gaps in ways we don’t always see at first. Gaps in time, yes—but also in confidence, focus, and self-trust. Gaps between what we once dreamed about and what feels realistic now. Gaps between who we were before caregiving and who we recognize in the mirror afterward.

"Mind the Gap" London Tube. Author photo.

Even now, after writing about purpose, resilience, and personal growth for years, I still struggle. Some days, I don’t do what I said I would do. Some days distraction wins. Some days exhaustion—physical or emotional—takes over. That’s not failure. That’s the residue of caregiving. And naming it matters.

The second hardest realization was accepting that rebuilding—like caregiving itself—takes time. Longer than we want. There’s no quick reset button after years of vigilance, loss, and responsibility. Healing and growth don’t follow calendar years.

Wanting something more is still important. For caregivers, it’s often the bravest step—to admit you want something beyond survival. To say, I’m not done yet. But wanting alone isn’t enough. Caregivers already know that love without structure leads to burnout.

What comes next is action—but gentle, realistic action. And after action comes what many caregivers were never given permission to create for themselves: a system.

Not a rigid one. Not a perfect one. Just something that helps tell the truth.

For me, that looks like a simple one-page daily accountability sheet. Nothing fancy. A way to map my day in time blocks and ask myself a quiet question at the end of it: Did I show up for my life today, even a little?

Caregivers are used to tracking everything—for everyone else. Meds. Schedules. Symptoms. This is different. This is about tracking me. Protecting small pockets of time. Choosing intention over default. Rebuilding trust with myself one ordinary day at a time.

If 2026 is going to be different, it won’t be because I suddenly have more energy or clarity. It will be because I build a daily bridge between who caregiving shaped me to be and who I’m becoming next.

That bridge isn’t dramatic.

It’s paper. Pencil. Honesty.

If you’re a caregiver—or someone who has been one—and you’re feeling that same quiet pull toward “more,” know this: you’re not late. You’re not broken. And you don’t need a grand plan.

You just need a way to start choosing yourself again, in small, imperfect, ordinary moments.

That’s my “how” right now.

And after years of showing up for someone else, I’m finally treating it like it matters.

Epcot 2025