When the Strong One Gets Tired: Loving Through the Weight of Caregiving

It started with small things.

Misplaced keys. A forgotten appointment. An odd silence during dinner where conversation used to flow.

I told myself it was just stress. Just aging. We both laughed it off the way people do when they’re trying not to look at the truth.

But the forgetting got worse. Then came the confusion. Mood swings occur. The mornings when she didn’t know what day it was—or who I was.

When the doctor said the word “dementia,” everything in the room fell silent. Except for her. She smiled like she hadn't quite heard it, or maybe didn't want to. I envied her in that moment. Because I heard it. Loud and clear. And I knew, in some deep, unspoken part of me, that life as we knew it was over.

People talk about caregiving like it’s a role you take on. Like a job title you accept. However, they do not discuss how it alters everything—invading every aspect of your identity, relationship, sleep, and sanity. They don’t tell you that love, when stretched that far, begins to fray.

She was my partner. My best friend. the one I went to after a long day for comfort. And suddenly, I was bathing her. Feeding her. Redirecting her when she tried to leave the house barefoot at midnight.

She’d get scared. She'd scream. Sometimes she’d cry and beg me to "please take her home," even though we were already there. I learned quickly not to argue with the confusion. You don’t win arguments with a broken mind. You just meet it where it is and do your best to love through it.

But I was tired. God, I was tired.

I became “the strong one.” Everyone around us applauded my patience. “You’re amazing,” they said. “I don’t know how you do it.”

And I’d smile and say, “You just do what you have to do.”

I was, however, breaking inside.

There were nights I stood over the sink in the kitchen, gripping the counter, just trying to breathe. There were mornings when I stared into my coffee, wondering how I’d make it through another day. I felt guilty for every ounce of resentment I carried. for having missed the version of her that used to make fun of me, tease me, and just kiss my forehead. That version was fading, piece by piece, and I was grieving a loss that hadn’t even fully happened yet.

I learned that caregiving isn’t just about logistics—it’s about grief. Ongoing, invisible grief. It’s saying goodbye over and over, every time another piece of them disappears.

But somewhere in the mess of it, there were still moments.

Moments when she'd hum the song we danced to at our wedding.

Moments when she’d look at me, clear-eyed for just a second, and say, “I know you love me.”

Moments when I remembered why I was still here, choosing this, choosing her.

People ask me now what advice I’d give to someone becoming a caregiver for someone they love. I don’t have perfect answers, but I do have this:

You are allowed to be tired. You are allowed to be angry. You are allowed to mourn, even when the person you love is still here. That doesn’t mean you love them any less.

Ask for help. Even when you don’t want to. Even when you think you can handle it. You’re not weak for needing rest.

Find your small joys. A cup of tea. a 15-minute outside walk. A song that reminds you of who you were before this.

And don’t forget that you still matter. Your life still matters. You are more than the caretaker—you are still you, even if that “you” feels buried under a hundred layers of responsibility.

I won’t pretend it gets easier. Some days are better than others. Some days are brutal. But love—real love—isn’t just the soft, beautiful moments. Sometimes, it’s in the labor. The lifting. The continuing When the strong one gets tired, they deserve care too.

And if no one else has said it to you today:

You're doing enough. You're doing more than enough. And you’re not alone.