A Tender Warrior reflection on labels, identity, and the self that remains

Everyone knows that dementia takes things — memory, ability, language, the capacity to reason through even the simplest decision. What we talk about far less, and what I lived and want to speak plainly about, is what it doesn’t take. And whether a relationship can survive, even flourish in its own altered way, inside that loss.

Lee was not, by the end, the man I had married. I knew that, and I had made a kind of peace with it over the long years of watching him change. But for years after the signs were impossible to ignore, he was still my husband. We had our shorthand — the small rituals and private phrases that belonged only to us, the particular way we moved through a day together that didn’t require explanation. He knew we were husband and wife. He called me his dearest Vicki. And he knew, with an aching kind of clarity that surprised me every time, that he was becoming more dependent on me — which became the source of many tender, difficult conversations that I still carry with me.

A year into assisted living, he still introduced me as his wife. Whether he fully understood what that word held — the history, the weight, the daily choosing of each other across two decades — or whether it was simply an imprint carved deep enough in long-term memory that it outlasted everything else, I can’t say with certainty. But I’ve come to believe that the distinction matters less than we think. Because the real question underneath all of it was this: did any of that loss mean he had truly lost his sense of self?

The Research Meets the Lived Experience

There is a definition of personhood in the literature that I return to again and again:

A person is an embodied, purposeful, thinking, feeling, emotional, reflective, relational, human individual always in action, responsive to meaning, and whose life in all spheres points both outward and inward.

What strikes me about that definition is what it doesn’t require. Not an intact set of memories. Not cognitive functions that remain unaffected. A relational being — someone who responds to meaning, who reaches outward and inward, who is still, in some essential way, in motion. By that measure, Lee was still very much a person.

💡 Research confirms what I witnessed firsthand: an erroneous perception among some nurses and staff is that cognitively impaired patients have lost the ability to interact or communicate. That perception breeds low expectations, and low expectations produce measurably negative outcomes — including hastening the very loss of self we most feared. How we see someone with dementia shapes what remains of them. That is not a small thing.

What I saw at Lee’s ALF was the objectification that research warns about — residents reduced to labels like “no memory” and “can’t talk,” managed like the most naïve of children rather than met as the complex human beings they still were. Some of the young aides, barely trained and not yet old enough to have much life experience of their own, visibly flinched when a resident reached out to touch them. I believe the residents felt that. I believe it registered somewhere in them, even when words couldn’t reach, and I believe it cost them something real. More than once I found myself thinking: please just see him — the man who lived a full life, who had dreams and history and love, who is still in there. That quiet plea is something every caregiver who has ever loved someone with dementia will recognize.

What Labels Do to All of Us

Labels do this — and not only to those with a diagnosis. We rely on them as shorthand because we must; we cannot analyze every person and situation from scratch. But when a label begins to replace thinking rather than organize it, it creates a false certainty that closes us off. Once we’ve named something, it can feel as though there’s nothing left to learn about it, as though the person in front of us has been fully understood and filed away.

💡 Labeling Theory, originally developed in the criminal justice arena, posits that people come to identify and behave in ways that reflect how others label them. Tell a young person often enough that they are incorrigible, criminal, beyond help — and the evidence bears out that they will begin to act accordingly. The label shapes the treatment. The treatment shapes the person. And over time, the label shapes the person’s own understanding of themselves. This same dynamic plays out inside memory care units, in workplaces, in families, and in the quiet stories we tell ourselves about who we are and what we’re capable of.

I know this from my own experience now, in a different season. Since Lee died, I carry the label widow, and with it arrives an entire unasked-for script: she must be lost, lonely, struggling to rediscover who she is, struggling to move forward. That is not my story — but the label landed before anyone thought to ask what my story actually was. We do this to others, and we do it to ourselves, assigning traits and limitations that feel like facts but are often just old stories that have been repeated long enough to morph into identity.

💡 Erik Erikson coined the term “ego identity” to describe an enduring, continuous sense of who a person is — one that merges all the versions of the self into a whole sturdy enough to withstand disaster. Dementia challenges that stability in ways that are profound and heartbreaking. But it doesn’t erase it entirely. And neither does grief, or caregiving, or any of the other experiences that threaten to reduce us to a single defining word.

The Self That Remains

So what, finally, is a sense of self in a person with dementia? To the extent that a person interacts, communicates — in words or without them — and relates to others and to themselves, there is a self present. Altered, yes, and changed in ways that require everyone around them to grieve and adapt and grieve again. But present. The qualities that made Lee Lee didn’t disappear when the disease advanced — they became harder to reach, the path longer and less predictable, requiring more patience and creativity and love to navigate. But he was still there. And the work — my work, the staff’s work, the work of anyone who loved him — was to keep finding him. To resist the pull of the label and show up, again and again, for the self that remained.

💡 The Tender Warrior learns this: you cannot love someone back to who they were. But you can keep showing up for who they are. Meeting them where they are — not where you wish they still were — is one of the most courageous acts of caregiving there is. It asks everything of you. And it gives something back that nothing else can.

This is a tribute to every caregiver who looked past the label and kept finding someone still worth knowing. You are seen. You are not alone.

Has a label — one given to you, or to someone you love — ever gotten in the way of seeing the real person? I’d love to hear from you in the comments.

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We were sitting in the car. It was a normal Saturday and Mom and I were doing errands in our Chevy Impala, a 4 door sedan that felt like driving in your living room. Like riding on bubble gum, bouncing along the road.

Always the fashionista, Mom was sharply dressed in a summer suit, matching bag and shoes, and perfectly coifed hair. Her words, like her outfit, were carefully chosen for maximum impact. Efficient and effective.

“I was married to someone else before your father.”

Did The World Just Turn Upside Down?

My mother built a career as a respected researcher in the defense community, her book The Test of War her crowning achievement. My father, also in the DoD, provided the steady, calm and loving support she needed and was the bedrock of our nuclear family of 4. Except now it turns out there was someone before him.

To a girl of 13 or 14, this shook my world. The idea that the pillars of my life — my parents — had full lives, histories, heartbreaks, and mistakes that existed before our family did, simply didn’t compute. Until that moment, I had only understood them as Mom and Dad. Nothing else.

As with most mothers and daughters, our relationship was complicated and simple, all at the same time. She was my comforter, tutor and taskmaster all rolled into one.

She was brilliant. She graduated from high school at 16, having skipped 2 grades. She was accepted to John’s Hopkins when women didn’t attend college (her father refused to let her, women got married and had babies). She worked her way through George Washington University (undergrad and grad) and graduated Phi Beta Kappa.

The Revelation

She married her high school sweetheart and divorced him during this period, when he hit her for the last time. She had to show the police the bruises so she could file a police report as reason for divorce (“irreconcilable differences” was not a reason for divorce in the 40s).

“I met my first husband when I was very young. He was handsome and charming and swept me off my feet. But he wasn’t who I thought he was. He was violent and drank. He hit me.”

“I was in grad school and I didn’t know what to do. One night he got so mad I left our apartment and sat on a bench under the streetlight, studying. I didn’t go back.”

She called her mother in Baltimore and went home to her. That’s when she filed the police report.

Removing the Mask

As she recounted this to me, I was speechless. If I were older I might have asked questions, but I didn’t have the life experiences to even begin to process this. It was like she removed a mask that hid the scars from a previous time. She was vulnerable, even fragile, so unlike the face she presented to the world - her accomplished, strong exterior.

I’ll never forget the day Mom took the mask off, just for a moment. She revealed the woman underneath — a woman who loved deeply, was hurt deeply, and made mistakes along the way. But also the most resilient, determined, and tough person I had known in my short life.

A warrior.

I’m not sure why she chose that day, or why she decided to tell me then. But something about it has remained with me to this day. She was revealing part of her life story to me — almost as an acknowledgment that I was stepping into a larger world of boys, trust, relationships, and decisions.

A world where love and mistakes coexist. Where choices carry consequences. Where people are rarely all good or all bad, but beautifully and painfully human.

“I tell you this so you’ll know that some things aren’t always as they seem. I want you to know this about people, too.” Universal words of wisdom, passed from mothers to daughters for generations.

Of Legacies and Courage

We all have stories of our Mothers, good or bad, tender or harsh, that have at least partially defined who we have become. Looking back, I recall this brief exchange - revelation - as an act of bravery. Having the courage to tell her daughters - it turns out a similar exchange occurred with my sister - of a previous and imperfect life, strikes me now as a way to reveal her unique and very human story. She shared one of the stories of her life that made her who she was.

She was helping her young daughter make that transition from childhood into a new stage of life — the time when we begin to understand that each of us carries a rich and complicated history, shaped by love, pain, mistakes, resilience, and experience. The very things that make us who we are today.

After this conversation, our family never spoke of this time in Mom’s life, or even the man’s name or what became of him. The experience informed my mother’s perspective but she never let it define her. Even so, it was there, everyone knew of it, but didn’t speak of it. This knowledge created a family bond, unspoken and unbroken.

And I realize now that she passed something else on to me that day — a legacy. One of resilience, courage, and belief in herself, even through hardship.

A Tender Warrior, indeed.

My mother passed away in 2013, at age 92. For 60 years she and my father lived a full, rewarding and fulfilled life. And in her own way, she passed on her experience and wisdom to her daughters.

Maybe she didn’t realize it, but we heard her.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.

I hated going home. That empty house spoke to an aloneness I hadn’t felt since my 30s. What used to be a building of welcome, of doing, of life and love…held nothing for me. It’s just underscored what I had lost.

Over the years, home had been so many things to me. Before Lee, it was more of a stopping place between career travel and vacations. After Lee and I met and for the next 20 years it became cherished; it was the refuge Lee and I created and where we built our life together. We didn’t have children, as we met later in life, but there was no less love and commitment because there was just the 2 of us. Indeed, our bond was strengthened because we had ourselves to commit to alone.

Home was where we came together after a work day. Where we planned, improved, shared. It was where we did absolutely nothing, together. And with an inner calm and peace I don’t believe either of us had experienced before. It was grounding.

Home Changed

During caregiving, home evolved. It became a place of worry, of mood swings, confusion and instability. It was a place where I watched our life come apart. The ground fell out from from under us.

When I was caring for Lee, I used to find moments of joy, here and there. I would include Lee in as much as he could handle. I’d read a few chapters of a book, or take a short walk to get outside. Meet a friend. Wear my favorite sweater. They were all moments I needed to make it thru the day.

Living in the moment was all I got. And for a natural planner, that is really hard. My schedule, my routine, was a big part of who I was - how I ran my business and organized life.

When Lee moved, caregiving didn’t stop. He still needed support, care, had daily needs. It was necessary to fill in the gaps that the staff at memory care couldn’t fill. Even though he lived somewhere else, I had to deliver. So home was there, but Lee still called me.

Even so, there were lots of moments to fill in between. The hours between 4 and 7 were especially hard.

I actually paced the rooms. As one who plans - a lot - I was trying to find a rhythm, a routine. I was looking for my own dance, my way of being in the world. I could get through the morning hours with errands and chores, but the afternoon and evening were empty. I wandered the house, unable to focus on a project, a goal.

A Turning Point

When it became clear I really couldn’t visit Lee anymore - any disruption to his routine created confusion and agitation - I started to dig myself out of this hole:

I prepared to go back to work:

• I took the courses and studied for the exam to re-establish my real estate license.

• I interviewed with area brokers, to find the right fit for me - a team environment that also rewarded the entrepreneurial spirit a real estate business requires.

• I updated my wardrobe to reflect the Vicki I wanted the world to see now.

I “got out of my own head”

• I stopped reflecting on the Alzheimer’s caregiving journey and the sorrow for what Lee had to go through. That was a force that was completely out of my control, so I resolved to work on what I could. It became time to start planning and stop fretting, stop regretting. And if I fell down while trying, then I got up off the floor and kept going.

• I took a look around my physical surroundings and made a list of what I needed to uplevel, starting with my closet. The comfortable and easily maintained clothes of caregiving years yielded to something a little more stylish and flattering - and communicated who I wanted the world to see now. Thank you Tamara Gaudin!

• And I started writing. Working with mentor and coach Joya Dass I developed a process for writing and created three pillars about which I write-Belonging to Self, Community and Home, after caring for my husband with Alzheimer’s. I lose sense of time when engrossed in this work - I even forget to check my phone! I write in part because it helps me work through grief, and I write to pay it forward to those currently caring for spouses with dementia - knowing now that there is another season after caregiving and there is hope. And that is even stronger medicine.

A New View

Now that I am on the other side of caregiving, and since Lee passed, home is gradually becoming something else:

• It’s my command center. Where I plan, prepare and execute on work, travel and writing. Not necessarily in that order.

• It’s where I create. A raw idea finds it way to paper (screen), edited and refined into a final writing. The ideas keep flowing.

• It’s where I-finally-rest. The view from my porch, trees swaying in the breeze, water flowing by the house, are calming and restorative. I can breathe and sit with my thoughts. Without the guilt. Without the regret. Most of the time.

Finding My Dance in the Present

Now - this home is where I am finding my new dance…the rhythm and routine of a life I am discovering. There is a flow, a fluidity, that I am not resisting. Some days I am reflective, some days I am emotional, and most days I am energized to move forward.

Tender Warriors take it all in. With resolve and intent.

A life with cherished friends, old and new, creating new experiences and memories, mingled with the love, experiences and memories of another life lived - and what’s coming next.

I don’t know what the future brings, but I know I have created the beginning of something good.

Samuel Beckett : “Dance first. Think later. It’s the natural order.”

I was a caregiver for my husband with Alzheimer’s. I write about Belonging to Self, Community and Home, both during and after caregiving.

If this would be of value to you to hear more about how I restored my sense of home after 4 years of caregiving, Subscribe to Vicki’s Substack, “The Tender Warrior.”

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On caregiving and refusing to disappear

Caregiving is love—but it is also relentless responsibility. Comforting Lee was entirely up to me. It was on me to calm him, to carry the emotional weight. To make the hundreds of daily decisions, both small and life-or-death (or at least it felt that way).

In reality, all I wanted some days was to sleep through the night. Just a few quiet moments to myself, to rest from the constant vigilance. To just feel safe and not terrified of what is coming next.

Here is the truth I had to learn the hard way:

You cannot disappear in order to care well for someone else.

Alzheimer’s has a way of slowly narrowing your world. Conversations revolve around symptoms, schedules and safety.

And decline. The diagnosis becomes the only story in the room—and I began to slowly fade into the background. I slowly stopped checking in on myself - how am I feeling, am I ok? Every day revolved around Lee and making sure he was as cared for and as comfortable as possible. And trying to be perfect at it, because he’s my husband.

And, of course, navigating ever-changing behaviors and moods brought on by Alzheimer’s.

I looked in the mirror and didn’t see Vicki anymore.

The Unseen Weight

Alzheimer’s and related dementia care presents unique emotional pressures. Persons with dementia may experience mood swings, paranoia, aggression, or complete withdrawal. Caregivers must adapt to changing behaviors, often without prior training or support. Communication becomes more challenging over time. These stressors can lead to emotional numbness, one of the symptoms of compassion fatigue.

In this state, caregivers may start to feel disconnected from their work or the people they care for. Empathy becomes difficult to summon. What once brought meaning and joy starts to feel mechanical and empty. Rather than continuing to absorb the emotional weight alone, caregivers benefit from acknowledging this shift and taking steps to protect their own well-being.

The Oxygen Mask

You know the old phrase, “Put your own oxygen mask on first?” I knew if I didn’t take care of me first, there was no taking care of someone else very well.

A friend and neighbor is caring for her husband with dementia, and she meets regularly with a group of friends they fondly call “The Oxygen”. Another member also cares for her husband with dementia. Through friendship and faith, together they weather the daily strains of caregiving. Several times a year she reunites with another group of friends. They’ve known each other for 50 years, are all in their own seasons, and still they show up. They meet to reconnect and renew themselves through friendship. That is a community that holds you up, that helps you restore your sense of belonging.

As a means of restoring my connection to my community again, I began scheduling breakfast, lunch, and dinner with friends. I felt it was urgent to restore connections and bring friends on the journey, even for an hour or two.

Not “when things calmed down.” Not “when I have time.” I put it on the calendar.

💡Research shows that spousal caregivers carry the highest burden of support and face greater levels of isolation.

Friends listened while I told them some of the life we were living, but we also went off topic and just talked about - anything. We talked about places we’d love to travel, shopping, exercise, our favorite Mexican restaurant - anything but Alzheimer’s and what it was taking from my husband and me.

Those meetups did more than get me out of the house. I felt restored for a while, energized, a little refreshed. Yes, I still worried when I was away from Lee, but I reminded myself that it was important to take a break if I was going to care for him well.

They were a lifeline. They reminded me I was still part of a wider community—part of life that existed beyond medication schedules and behavioral changes.

For an hour or two, I was Vicki again.

Breaking the Silence

And sometimes, we had to have the conversations that mattered most. When the fatigue and the stress and always being “on” became too much and I just needed someone to hear me. The small group of friends who listened silently and compassionately were a lifeline. Even though they couldn’t solve anything, I paid attention when they suggested ways to cope and manage - their “fresh eyes” on the problem brought new ideas.

Research shows that many caregivers keep their struggles to themselves. They fear that admitting hardship will be seen as weakness. Honest conversations among caregiving teams, families, and communities create a safe space for caregivers to share their experiences.

Open discussions reduce isolation and normalize these feelings. They also help identify solutions. Teams can balance workloads, family members can provide more support, and peer groups can offer connection.

Breaking the silence is not just healing, it is empowering.

Steel Magnolias

Watching your spouse decline in ways you can’t describe or predict, while at the same time meeting their physical and emotional needs, requires a warrior mentality. Tender Warriors know this. With love, we make the hard decisions, clean up the messes, rearrange the room, drive for hours, keep the schedules, maintain the house, pay the bills…with clarity of purpose. All without knowing what the next day will bring.

Finding yourself in all of this is not a luxury, it’s survival.

So This is Important:

• You are allowed conversations about you.

• You are allowed laughter in the middle of grief.

• You are allowed connection that has nothing to do with the illness.

• You are allowed to share your frustrations, your fears, your struggles.

Staying tethered to community doesn’t mean you love your spouse any less.

It means you are making sure you don’t vanish while loving them.

I was a caregiver for my husband with Alzheimer’s. I write about Belonging to Self, Community and Home, both during and after caregiving.

If this would be of value to you to hear more about how I restored my sense of community during the years of caregiving, Subscribe to Vicki’s Substack, “The Tender Warrior.”

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“You write so well Vicki, but it must be so much work” - and - “I guess it must be therapeutic for you”

I was gathered with a few friends when we all had some free time. We’ve known each other for many years. They knew of Lee’s journey, but not the precise toll the whole experience exacted on me. Who could, when no one is inside my head?

It was an innocent comment and compliment, but I heard something else: is this how you’re working through your grief? You write 3 long posts each week, isn’t that too much for you? Are you up to it? How long will you do this?

Why aren’t you moving on?

Merging the Research with the Lived Experience

There are many theories, and I’ve noted them in my long posts - identity, adaptive, role exit - that describe the unique grief process for former caregivers of spouses with dementia. We lived with loss for so long before the actual passing, the process to shed that role - that identity - takes time. And each individual works through their grief in their own way.

But the memories from the lived experience don’t go away, even as the grief diminishes and passes. They are vivid and acute, and universally experienced by those who care for and watch their spouse’s decline and death.

I want be part of a community that lifts up and supports those who are silently screaming “see me!”, “I’m here!” as they are living or leaving the caregiver life. You realize something new must take place. By writing about it, by speaking the unspoken truths, I hope to help others in this season. To document what it looks like to move out of grief and into a new life.

The “7 Muses” model, as interpreted through creative, integrative grief recovery, utilizes seven pillars to help you transform pain into a new, meaningful life. Each Muse offers an approach to express and move through grief. I am focusing on Muses 6 and 7 in my life now - the path forward into a new life.

1. The Muse of Expression (Art & Creativity) Use creative outlets to release complex emotions that words cannot capture. Art, pottery, writing, gardening…

2. The Muse of Connection (Community & Support) Alzheimer’s can be isolating. Rebuilding involves reaching out to break the walls of silence. It’s easy to put up walls, it feels safe. Break down the barriers to receive the help and support you need.

3. The Muse of Memory (Reminiscence & Legacy) Focus on honoring the person they were, while acknowledging the reality of who they are now (or were at the end). Step forward with clarity.

4. The Muse of Movement (Physical & Emotional Release) Grief is physical, affecting sleep, appetite, and energy levels. Listen to your body, your own health. You are important and have needs.

5. The Muse of Mindfulness (Living in the Moment) Alzheimer’s forces a focus on the present moment, which can be adapted into a, “live in the moment” skill for your own healing. One foot in front of the other.

6. The Muse of Meaning (Reconstructing Identity) Rebuilding your life means defining who you are now that your caregiving role has changed or ended.

7. The Muse of Acceptance (Resilience & New Hope) Acceptance isn’t about being okay with the loss, but about acknowledging its reality and allowing yourself to move forward.

We Evolve

I started off writing with a different goal in mind. Quickly, this became a project, then a calling, to provide a perspective on the role of spousal caregiver, to let others know they are not alone and their feelings are worthy. They are seen, they are heard, they are supported.

And how, after caregiving, there is a life to be explored, taking all your experiences with you and moving forward with them, integrated into who you are becoming. There is hope.

In this life, things happen that are entirely out of your control; how you interpret and react to these events determines your happiness. Be grateful and rejoice in the good that you do have in your life. After years of feeling like you were in control of nothing, you are now in charge of the exact meaning you attach to life’s events and how you act on them.

Control Returns

Caregiving changes you. Grief changes you. I am grateful for the life and love I had with Lee, and for the life I can live today (which I will not waste). I feel that I am more aware, perceptive and patient. I am also a little wiser and empathetic. I am much stronger - we are, after all, Tender Warriors. I am more open to different experiences, and I am using all the problem solving skills I honed during caregiving as I meet life’s challenges head on.

So no—this isn’t just therapy. It’s a way of making sense of what was lived. This is honoring it and shaping what comes next.

I was a caregiver for my husband with Alzheimer’s. I write about Belonging to Self, Community and Home, both during and after caregiving.

If this would be of value to you to hear more about how I restored my sense of self after 4 years of caregiving, Subscribe to Vicki’s Substack, “The Tender Warrior.”

Much of what I write about is finding your joy, even when dealing with the grief that comes with the caregiving experience, so as my gift to you, receive the free download What Joy Looks Like when you subscribe.

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A Tender Warrior story about the decision no one prepares you for

One of the hardest—if not the single hardest—decisions a caregiver makes is if and when to move your loved one into the memory care section of an Assisted Living Facility.

The experience is universal.

It’s a tortured decision-making process—one that may involve conflicting input from family, medical professionals, and your own conscience.

Ultimately—and this is the thing no one really says—it is your decision.

Yours alone.

Because at some point, you realize:

You just can’t do it anymore: the mood swings and verbal aggression become more frequent. You find yourself thinking something you never thought would cross your mind:

When will this lead to a physical outburst?

When will I be in harm’s way?

At the same time, the need becomes overwhelming—constant assistance in every facet of living:

• Dressing.

• Hygiene.

• Sitting.

• Standing.

• Understanding a question.

• Knowing who friends are.

• Who your children are.

• Who you are.

And sometimes, it becomes you or them.

Because somewhere deep down, you understand: this disease might take you before it takes them.

I am not sugarcoating this.

And I am not exaggerating it, either.

I remember lying in bed one night, realizing I couldn’t remember the last time I had taken care of my own health. An annual physical. Vaccines. Preventive care—things that were once second nature to both of us.

There were no “normal” conversations anymore. Just a tug of war about how to put socks on or why his show wasn’t on that night. Or how to scare away the demons that took over around sunset.

In that moment, I knew: Alzheimer’s could take me before it took Lee.

“Home” #1

Lee lived in three different ALF memory care settings. They were his “home” for the next 2+ years.

The first lasted two weeks.

It was a large, corporate-owned facility—about 100 residents.

The advice I was given by clinicians, social workers, and others was to drop him off and leave. Don’t visit. Let the staff tell him the house was being painted and he needed to stay there until it was done.

The hope was that he would forget. That he would adjust.

He didn’t.

He was isolated. Scared. In a locked, institutional environment. And he’s a man—he moved into fight-or-flight mode quickly.

Antipsychotics were prescribed. Dosages increased. He ended up in the hospital for two weeks—restrained, catheterized. Eventually, the stronger medications were replaced with something gentler. Something that helped.

But he never went back.

“Home” #2

The second memory care setting was different.

A smaller, cottage-style environment—about ten residents. Some were in very advanced stages of dementia, nonverbal and immobile. Lee wasn’t there yet, which created a different kind of frustration.

This time, I was there every day. Watching. Monitoring. Managing his adjustment.

And here is something I say without reproach—but with clarity:

Our system for senior care, especially for those who are cognitively impaired, is deeply flawed.

The staff are often undereducated, undertrained, and underpaid.

Young adults—barely out of high school, with minimal training—are asked to care for people with profound and complex needs.

There is a gap there. A human one.

I spent most days of the week there—cleaning, changing, showering him—because there wasn’t enough trained support to care for him the way he needed. And I wasn’t the only family member providing hands-on care for their loved one.

💡Indeed, research has shown that “families are the invisible workforce in nursing homes and residential care facilities.” It is currently unrecognized, but essential, work in caring for family members.

And more than once, I found myself thinking: Please just see him.

See the man who lived a full life. Who had dreams, relationships, history. Who was still there.

Finally “home”

Finally, after another decline, Lee moved to a small, private care home.

Six residents. State accredited and inspected. Owned and run by the primary caregiver.

The staff was consistent. The care was compassionate, dignified, and respectful. Communication was frequent, thoughtful, and complete.

For the first time, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time: I felt in charge again. Not of the disease—but of his care, and my role in it.

Lee lived there for the final 14 months of his life.

Going Home…finally

His final decline lasted about three weeks. In the last 5 days, he was moved to in-house hospice care:

I saw him every day.

I kissed him.

I told him how much I loved him.

And I told him it was okay to go home.

On the fifth day in hospice, he did.

I am relieved for him.
And I am relieved for me.

That is the truth we don’t often say out loud.

Caregiving is love. But it is also relentless, consuming, and, at times, unsustainable.

The Tender Warrior learns this slowly:

💡You can love someone completely and still reach the edge of what you can carry. And when you do—choosing help is not failure.

It is courage.

It is care.

The raw and honest truth?

Home can be hell.

And home can be heaven.

Sometimes—at the very same time.

This is the shout-out and tribute to every caregiver, every family member - spouse, child, grandchild, sibling - who made the choice.

And now - life goes on.

I was a caregiver for my husband with Alzheimer’s. I write about Belonging to Self, Community and Home, both during and after caregiving.

If this would be of value to you to hear more about how I restored my sense of community after 4 years of caregiving, Subscribe to Vicki’s Substack, “The Tender Warrior”

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I’ve written a lot about the importance of community—and feeling a sense of belonging within it.

It sounds obvious. Practical. Almost like common sense.

And yet, during caregiving, it was anything but easy.

There were real barriers:

• Time — Caregiving is constant. Even when I stepped away, my mind stayed with him.

• Guilt — He was the one suffering. What right did I have to go enjoy myself?

• Worthiness — I felt fragile. I didn’t want to bring that weight into someone else’s life.

Research confirms what many caregivers quietly live:

💡There is strong research in caregiving, psychology, and aging that supports the idea that purposeful roles, leadership and community participation help caregivers preserve identity and psychological health.

You can be physically with someone and still feel completely alone.

It’s a strange reality—

We went from two people living one life

to one person holding it all together for two.

Zooming Out

This isn’t just about caregiving. After 50, life shifts.

Careers evolve. People move. Relationships change shape.

Sociologists have found that while our social circles may shrink in midlife, the relationships that remain become more meaningful, more intentional.

We stop trying to keep everyone—and start investing in the ones who truly sustain us.

Not quantity.

Clarity.

What I’m Learning About Friendship

Friendships don’t always disappear.

Sometimes they pause. Sometimes they evolve. Sometimes they return—unexpectedly, right when you need them.

That’s not failure. That’s life moving through seasons.

And so are we.

Three Ways I Cherish Friendship Now

• Reach out simply A quick “thinking of you” text mattered more than I realized—then and now.

• Go deeper We’re all carrying something. Honest conversations matter.

• Say it out loud “I’m glad you’re here.” “I love you.” Don’t assume they know.

💡Call this “The Tender Warrior Code”

When Just Your Presence Is Enough

We are problem-solvers by nature. We want to help. Fix. Improve. But some moments don’t need solutions, they need presence.

Our truest friends know they can’t solve our problems for us. They also appreciate the power of just being with us, as we power our way through the toughest times.

A steady hand. A quiet seat beside someone.

A reminder that—even in the hardest seasons—we are not alone.

Ernest Hemingway wrote this so well:

In our darkest moments, we don’t need solutions or advice. What we yearn for is simply human connection—a quiet presence, a gentle touch. These small gestures are the anchors that hold us steady when life feels like too much. Please don’t try to fix me. Don’t take on my pain or push away my shadows. Just sit beside me as I work through my own inner storms. Be the steady hand I can reach for as I find my way. My pain is mine to carry, my battles mine to face. But your presence reminds me I’m not alone in this vast, sometimes frightening world. It’s a quiet reminder that I am worthy of love, even when I feel broken. So, in those dark hours when I lose my way, will you just be here? Not as a rescuer, but as a companion. Hold my hand until the dawn arrives, helping me remember my strength. Your silent support is the most precious gift you can give. It’s a love that helps me remember who I am, even when I forget.

I was a caregiver for my husband with Alzheimer’s. I write about Belonging to Self, Community and Home, both during and after caregiving.

If this would be of value to you to hear more about how I restored my sense of community after 4 years of caregiving, Subscribe to Vicki’s Substack, “The Tender Warrior”

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Stuck

Stuff just keeps piling up. These past few weeks, between Real Estate clients, a long weekend away, and writing - all the small but numerous projects called HOMEOWNERSHIP have piled up. Boxes that need to be unpacked and broken down, paperwork required (the practical matters of my husband’s passing), correspondence, yard work (!) - it was truly a beast I was looking at. I’m stuck!

It feels like it did in 2024, after Lee moved to a Memory Care home. While relieved he was able to receive the kind of 24/7 support he needed, I actually missed being needed. There was an empty space inside.

I had been a wife and partner, then a caregiver for years, and then he moved. And with that departure, my role changed. I was no longer a caregiver.

All at once, I down shifted, from constant demands on time, attention and focus, to…nothing.

It’s a shock to the system, and it’s something that happens on the inside, invisible.

All the care, love, energy and attention I’d directed towards him had nowhere to go.

I tried a few things to fill the void:

• I tried to keep our former routines. The news before dinner, our favorite shows, a walk in the late morning. Kind of different when it’s just you.

• I filled the day with…anything. Long walks, the gym, golf, lunches…anything to fill the hours. I was spinning my wheels, trying to seem busy and productive.

• I ended up becoming (partly through necessity) his part-time caregiver again. That’s a story for another day.

I was stuck in patterns—behaviors, habits, ways of thinking—that were keeping me exactly where I was.

I was stuck. It felt like my body was still in fullspeed caregiver mode, concerned with schedules, routines, medications, rest, ADL’s, and on and on. It took a while for the nervous system to catch up with what was happening on the outside. Like Newton’s 1st Law of Motion, my life had moved to a different place, but I hadn’t!

Research describes Identity Inertia as the psychological resistance to changing one’s self-concept, causing people to stick to old roles, behaviors, and narratives even when they no longer serve them. This resistance creates a “hidden force” that makes evolving into a new identity difficult. We end up fighting against creating a new story for ourselves.

Inertia. Resistance to any change in motion.

I couldn’t move forward, I wouldn’t move backward.

Because we all know, going backward is not a strategy.

But I knew, deep down, that there was something better. I could feel it, I just couldn’t visualize or describe it yet.

Gabrielle Dubois, in her wonderful Substack newsletter Le Secret Club, calls this place The Threshold. Where you imagine a different - better - life, but can’t exactly make it happen.

…where something stops feeling imagined and starts feeling real. Not in a forced or delusional way, but in an almost familiar way.

I will say - this truly happened to me. I don’t know exactly when it hit, but I understood finally that the changes I needed to make were within me, not in my schedule or the shows I watched or the time of day I took a walk.

Within me.

How I saw myself.

How I wanted others to see me.

Who was the person I wanted to be?

Who was I becoming?

💡You don’t have to have lived the caregiver life to experience this foundational shift. Life changes such as loss, career change, divorce, even success, can result in identity shift, on a large or small scale. The point is to recognize it as positive change and embrace it.

**Role Exit Theory** describes 4 stages as you transition out of any deeply rooted role. These stages include doubt, seeking alternatives, the turning point and creating identity. The caregiver transition maps to this framework closely.

Starting with a belief, and moving to a concrete and actionable plan, helped me move forward. Now, with projects and to-do’s lining up:

• At home: I cleared the clutter and now focus on completing 1 thing at a time, methodically. I paved the way for progress.

• In my work: Focus and attention on customers’ objectives and supporting them through the real estate process.

• In my writing: Organizing scattered thoughts (inspirations!) into something meaningful.

• In my community: In my community, my efforts to show up—consistently, intentionally.

Because that’s how you move forward. It happens while you’re just living life, in quiet and subtle ways. In the things you notice, what you’re drawn to, conversations you have, the experiences you explore.

And tackling the list of to-do’s.

You begin to feel it.

Movement again.

Out of inertia.

Back into life.

Back into yourself.

I was a caregiver for my husband with Alzheimer’s. I write about Belonging to Self, Community and Home, both during and after caregiving.

If this would be of value to you to hear more about how I restored my sense of community after 4 years of caregiving, Subscribe to Vicki’s Substack, “The Tender Warrior.” As my thank you when you do, you will receive a free download of my checklist, 7 Ways to Find Your Voice Again, a reminder of simple activities to remember yourself as a person outside of your role as “caregiver.”

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There are decisions you make with clarity.

And then there are decisions you make because there is no other choice.

My husband was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s in 2022. By late 2023, I made the decision to move him into Assisted Living.

After he moved, I expected relief. What I felt instead was disorientation. The roles that had defined my days—wife, caregiver, constant companion—fell away almost overnight. And the house… the house didn’t hold me the way it once had.

It held everything else. Every project we had taken on. Every improvement. Every imperfect, human moment of building a life together.

Instead of feeling like home, it felt like a place I could no longer fully inhabit.

What I learned, and I hope other caregivers willl learn:

Loving your spouse does not require abandoning your need to feel at home in your own life.

That distinction matters. Because when you lose your sense of self inside caregiving, a few things begin to happen—quietly at first.

1. Caregiving without identity leads to resentment.

   You need a place—physically and emotionally—where you are not on duty. Where you can think, feel, and exist without being needed every moment.

2. Isolation distorts judgment.

   When your world narrows to medications, routines, and next steps, your decisions can start coming from exhaustion and grief—not clarity.

3. Grief can root itself in place.

   I believed staying in the house would comfort me. Instead, it anchored me to a version of life that no longer existed. My grief didn’t move—it settled.

Maslow’s hierarchy reminds us that we all need both safety and belonging.

And that’s when I knew something had to change.

I made one forward-looking decision.

I began preparing the house to sell.

• Closets. Storage. Paperwork.

• Checking systems. Fixing what needed attention.

• Quiet, methodical steps.

But something else was happening underneath that.

Movement was restoring agency.

Each decision—what to keep, what to release—became a small act of reclaiming my life.

This wasn’t a five-year plan. It wasn’t reinvention. It was re-entry.

It started with one drawer, one room.

One decision at a time.

Clear the counter. Change the pillows.

Open the space.

One step forward.

In June of 2024, I moved out of our home. It was the right decision, but also the hardest decision. Leaving behind years of memories - some joyful and some very painful - was an act of reclaiming my life as my own. I wasn’t going to get stuck in a cycle of grief, tears and regrets.

It started with one small decision, and it started me on a new path. Towards rediscovery, of myself, my community and my home. And in many ways creating a new life, new community, new home.

Because I didn’t just pick up my old life and relocate it - I created a new one, rooted in love for my husband and devoted to his care…at the same time intentionally leaning in to the future that I now have to build for myself.

Sometimes we think rediscovery requires a dramatic change.

But often, it begins much closer to home.

Sometimes it begins with rearranging the room.

I was a caregiver for my husband with Alzheimer’s. I write about Belonging to Self, Community and Home, both during and after caregiving.

If this would be of value to you to hear more about how I restored my sense of community after 4 years of caregiving, Subscribe to Vicki’s Substack, “The Tender Warrior”

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We hadn’t seen each other in 25 years.

And yet—there we were.

Six of us, in Charleston, for a girls’ weekend. Women I had known at different depths, in a different season of life. Some closely. Some more peripherally. All of us connected by a shared past that had gone quiet for decades.

They all knew about Lee—his diagnosis, and his recent passing. One had walked closely beside me through the hardest part. The others… I had simply re-entered their lives.

It felt, at first, like leapfrogging over 25 years of living.

When we last knew each other, life looked very different.

Most of them were just beginning families—raising young children, building homes and routines that would shape the next two decades of their lives. Their days were full in ways I didn’t yet understand.

I was still single. Then I met Lee, and everything changed.

I left Washington, D.C. and built a new life—one that felt grounded, joyful, deeply rooted in a sense of home. And then, years later, that life narrowed into something else entirely as Alzheimer’s took hold.

So I arrived in Charleston with tempered expectations. Because what does it mean to reconnect after 25 years? Who are you to each other now?

There’s research on this—on reconnecting with what are called “dormant ties.”

💡We expect it to feel awkward. We assume too much time has passed.
But often, the opposite is true.
There is a familiarity that doesn’t disappear.
A shared history that quietly bridges the gap.

Still, I wondered how it would feel.

The Connection

Our connection to that past life revolved around a beach house that we used on the weekends. We were single, still building careers, had the whole world in front of us.

One morning, over coffee, I shifted the conversation.

“What do you remember most about that time?” I asked.

Before marriages. Before children. Before careers took shape and sent us in different directions.

There was no hesitation. We all landed in the same place. It wasn’t the big events. Not relationships. Not work.

It was the planning.

The Friday morning emails, coordinating rides to the beach house, figuring out who was arriving when, who was bringing what, the anticipation of coming together.

That was what stayed.

And suddenly, it all felt familiar.

Because here we were again—25 years later—doing the exact same thing.

Weeks of planning. Zoom calls. Coordinating schedules, travel, what to pack, what to wear. All the small details that lead up to something shared.

And I realized—it wasn’t just the weekends themselves that bonded us back then.

It was the coming together. The connecting. The organizing. The shared energy of looking forward to something.

For me, this mattered more than I expected.

Caregiving had reshaped my life in ways that are hard to fully explain unless you’ve lived it.

Your world becomes smaller. More contained. Your attention is always outward—focused on what’s needed, what’s next, what might go wrong.

You become incredibly capable. But also… disconnected from yourself.

And here, in Charleston, something shifted. We were just six women planning a trip. Not caregivers. Not defined by careers or roles or losses. All of our labels in life faded for a few days.

Just… ourselves.

There’s something powerful about that.

About stepping back into connection without needing to explain everything that happened in between.

About being known—not for your most recent chapter—but as part of a longer story.

And also, about realizing you don’t have to stay in the identity that carried you through the hardest season.

We’re already planning the next trip.

Six women, moving into a new phase of life—retirement, empty nests, new projects, new ideas about how we want to spend our time.

The lines that once defined our differences—who had children, who didn’t, who lived where, who chose what path—have softened.

Blended.

Become less important.

What remains is something simpler.

Connection. Shared history. A willingness to show up again.

And for me—a quiet return to myself. Through community and connection.

Not all at once.

But enough to recognize it.

I was a caregiver for my husband with Alzheimer’s. I write about Belonging to Self, Community and Home, both during and after caregiving.

If this would be of value to you to hear more about how I restored my sense of community after 4 years of caregiving, Subscribe to Vicki’s Substack, “The Tender Warrior.”

When you do, receive a free checklist, What Joy Looks Like—simple reminders of ways to find joy in your daily life even when things seem overwhelming

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.

There are things no one really explains about caregiving.

People talk about resilience. They talk about strength. They talk about having a system in place.

💡Dr. George Bonanno’s research on resilience emphasizes flexibility and adapting to new circumstances, rather than adhering to a rigid system.

Linda Graham, MFT, encourages journaling to process events, leading to understanding of how to grow in the post-traumatic period.

University of Michigan research suggests combining familiar, stable, and routine responses with new, innovative, and adaptive strategies.

And other research shows that planning in advance - taking a proactive approach to potential traumas - helps build resilience, rather than just reacting to events as they occur.

What they don’t talk about is the repetition.

How the same moment can happen again and again, until it no longer feels like a moment—but a way of life.

Lee would ask the same question. And I would answer it.

A few minutes later, he would ask again. And I would answer again.

At first, I tried to explain. To add more detail, more context—thinking maybe this time it would land.

Eventually, I understood. It wasn’t going to land.

So I stopped trying to move him forward, and instead learned to stay where he was.

There were other moments.

Standing in the kitchen, watching him hold a fork—turning it slightly, as if it were something unfamiliar. Looking at a toothbrush like it belonged to someone else’s life.

And I would step in, gently, quietly, without making it bigger than it already was.

You learn how to do that. How to smooth the edges of a moment so it doesn’t turn into fear.

You learn how much of life is actually made up of these very small things.

Caregiving Doesn’t Move in a Straight Line

In the beginning, I thought I needed a better system. More structure. More information. More control.

I read everything I could find. I tried to map what was happening to stages, to timelines, to something that would make it feel predictable.

But Alzheimer’s doesn’t move in a straight line. And neither does caregiving.

What worked one day could fail the next. What calmed him yesterday might agitate him today.

So the system became something else. Less about control and more about adjustment.

💡Several adaptive models suggest a system for moving with your loved one in the ALZ journey:

• Flexibility - understand that your relationship with your spouse will change. I quickly moved from being Lee’s wife to “his buddy”, to provider of all needs, to payer of the bills.

• Recognizing the 4 phases - caregiving changes over time. Getting a formal diagnosis of Lee’s Alzheimer’s Dementia wasn’t exactly welcomed, but it did provide a clinical description and led to medication (that provided some help) and access to resources. After that, I was on my own to adapt to his changing cognitive abilities and needs and explore how best to support him. I desperately needed support and assistance to understand the changes. I read every publication I could find on the stages of ALZ, and tried to apply them to Lee’s behaviors and mental state.

• Education - Each patient’s journey is unique, but there are some common pathways. Ultimately, my best resource was Lee’s final caregiver - a kind, compassionate, incredibly smart and loving person who approached his care for Lee in a respectful and dignified manner. He understood that Lee’s world needed to be very small and routinized, and that any small change could frighten and over-stimulate him. I don’t know that I could have done this - my heart was fried, I was exhausted and out of ideas - but “K” took Lee into his home and his heart and was there until the end.

• “Walking with, not ahead” - always remember this is your spouse, your life’s partner, the love of your life. As much as you’ve lost, find the micro-moments of joy, love and laughter. It won’t be what it was, but with Lee I cherished it even more knowing these moments were fleeting and then gone.

Near the end, Lee’s world became very small.

Routine mattered. Familiarity mattered. Even the slightest disruption could overwhelm him.

By then, I was tired in a way that’s hard to explain—physically, emotionally, mentally.

And then someone stepped in who understood how to meet him exactly where he was. He understood that Lee’s world needed to be very small and routinized. He met Lee where he was, each day. Not where anyone wished he could return to. But where he was.

There was a quiet dignity in that kind of care. A steadiness I’m not sure I had left in me. And I’m grateful for it.

When I look back now, I don’t think about resilience the way I used to:

• It wasn’t about pushing through or holding everything together perfectly.

• It was about continuing: answering the question again, softening the moment again.

• Showing up again.

• Over and over again.

At The End of the Day…

No matter the “system” or “framework”, at the end of the day it rests on our shoulders - The Silent Warriors - to walk this journey with our loved ones. There is no one else.

If you’re in it now, you may not even realize what you’re carrying. It becomes so normal, so routine, that you stop noticing the weight of it. But it’s there.

And if you’re on the other side of it, like I am now, you start to see it differently. Not just what it took from you—but what it required of you. I view that season through a different lens now, able to recognize the lessons and truths I learned about myself.

There’s a kind of strength in that. A quiet one. Not loud. Not visible. Not something most people ever see.

Take a step back, acknowledge your pain, your love and the wonderful work you’re doing.

If this would be of value to you to hear more about how I restored my sense of belonging after 4 years of caregiving, Subscribe to Vicki’s Newsletter, “The Tender Warrior.”

One of the best ways to assist in maintaining your resiliency is selecting a caregiver for your loved one. It helps create routines and frees you to focus on the long term. Receive the free download 7 Things to Look For in Choosing a Caregiver as my gift to you when you join my Substack mailing list. Get new articles straight to your inbox and never miss a post!

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I write about ways to belong to yourself again in my weekly newsletter “The Tender Warrior.” Because— I truly had to be a warrior most days, but for the man who was the absolute love of my life.

So much of my life—and my work—happens at home.

• The work of real estate, helping buyers and sellers navigate important decisions.

• The work of writing and researching for The Tender Warrior.

• And the quiet, necessary rhythm of life—paying bills, scheduling repairs, keeping everything moving forward.

For years, I didn’t give much thought to how I moved through my days. I just did what needed to be done. A laptop on the kitchen counter. A tablet. A phone.

And very small screens.

It didn’t occur to me then that the way I was working…might also shape the way I was experiencing my life.

During caregiving for Lee, I did enough to get things done.

Bills. Taxes. Deposits. Insurance forms.

Nothing creative. Nothing expressive. Just moving from one task to the next. With love.

Looking back, I can see that home became a place of function. Of responsibility. Of care. But not a place where I fully belonged to myself.

Now, on the other side of caregiving, I’m writing again. Thinking again. Spending more time sitting down at my computer. Paying attention in a different way.

And the other day—almost without thinking—I ordered a desktop computer.

A desktop. I wasn’t even sure they still existed. But they do. And when that 27-inch screen lit up, I had an immediate reaction—

Oh.

💡Research shows that home office design significantly impacts productivity by influencing cognitive load, mood, and circadian rhythms.

I can see again. No more squinting. No more compressing everything into a few inches of space. No more trying to manage an entire life through a screen that couldn’t hold it.

Now I can see it all:

• My work.

• My life.

• My writing.

Side by side. With room.

My world expanded, with this small step.

It’s more than just convenience. The larger view has given me something I didn’t realize I was missing—a sense of perspective.

I can see more clearly what I’m doing, where I’m going, who I’m becoming. By expanding the space in front of me, I’ve also expanded the space within me.

This new-found clarity led me to thinking in a holistic way, rather than just focusing on singular tasks at hand. “Zooming out” enabled me to see the interconnections in my life.

This is true in business, and in life:

Research by Psychologist Paul Stillman at Ohio State University shows that looking at the big picture is a way to minimize waste and inefficiencies when making decisions and to maximize net gain for everyone.

“When you create some psychological distance from your decision, you tend to see things more in line with long-term goals, and you can see beyond the immediate considerations of the here and now.”

💡It’s a simple principle of perspective that makes this possible: the farther away you are from something, the smaller it appears.

And of course, it didn’t stop there. Once I could see more clearly, I started looking around the room differently. The sleep sofa that’s been there for twenty years—used once—no longer makes sense.

The placement of the desk. The art. The light. The energy of the space.

I started asking a different question:

Does this space support the life I’m living now—or the life I’ve already lived?

Because home is not just where we get things done. It’s where we return to ourselves. And for a long time, I wasn’t doing that here.

Now I am. Slowly. Deliberately. One decision at a time.

As I’ve written before, I am a work in progress—integrating what was with who I’m becoming.

This office is just one step. An important one.

Belonging to yourself begins with seeing your life more clearly.

Sometimes you just need a bigger screen.

💡Research by neuroscientists shows that effective home design can be time well spent:

• Bring in the natural light.

• If you have several view options when you position your desk, pick the one with the most visible nature.

• Add a couple of green leafy plants. De-clutter! Think Frank Lloyd Wright.

• If you have a wooden floor in your office and you’ve covered it with a carpet, roll that carpet back a little, if you can do so safely. Looking at wood grain can also elevate your cognitive performance and creativity.

• Open your windows to add some fresh air and movement to your office.

• Do what you can to work in a space where visual and audio distractions will be low.

• Add a slight odor of lemon to your home office. Studies show that lemon essence increases levels of alertness and enhances task performance. The scent of lavender will help you relax and trust others more (which can be good or bad, depending).

• Play a nature soundtrack.

I was a caregiver for my husband with Alzheimer’s. I write about Belonging to Self, Community and Home, both during and after caregiving.

If this would be of value to you to hear more about how I restored my sense of community after 4 years of caregiving, Subscribe to Vicki’s Substack, “The Tender Warrior”

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When I was a caregiver for my husband, my world became very small.

It happened slowly. Then all at once.

After my husband’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis, I stepped fully into the role of caregiver. Our life—once shared, social, outward-facing—began to narrow as his dependence grew. What I didn’t expect was how much of me would begin to disappear in that process.

And then, just as quietly, I began to find my way back. Not all at once. Not dramatically. But deliberately.

💡Studies by Steven H. Zarit—a leading researcher on caregiver stress—found that caregivers experience significantly lower psychological strain when they retain meaningful roles such as work, volunteering, or leadership positions.

These are the four things I learned:

1. Caregiving will compress your world—if you let it.

   Activities fall away. Invitations slow down. Your identity shifts, almost imperceptibly, from partner to caregiver.

   
   And somewhere in that shift, you can lose your connection—not just to yourself, but to others.

2. Grieve what is actually being lost.

   I wasn’t only grieving my husband’s decline.

   
   I was grieving the loss of partnership. Of shared experiences. Of community.

   
   Saying that out loud mattered. It gave shape to what I was feeling—and kept it from becoming something unnamed and overwhelming.

3. You have to build community on purpose.

   Caregiving isolates. Community restores.

   
   For me, that meant stepping into a leadership role—President of the Board for a local organization. It wasn’t a huge time commitment. Four to eight hours a month.

   
   But it changed everything. There were agendas to set. Decisions to make. Conversations that had nothing to do with caregiving.

   
   That consistency mattered. It gave me structure. It gave me perspective. It reminded me I was still capable, still strategic, still part of something larger than what was happening inside my home.

   
   It gave me back a sense of belonging: That monthly meeting, small as it sounds, rooted me in a circle of women who showed up consistently. That steady rhythm of shared purpose restored my sense of belonging beyond the walls of my home.

4. I volunteered. At the zoo.

   Once I was on the other side of being the primary caregiver, I had the time to give to a volunteer role.

   
   At first I volunteered simply to take up time. To fill hours in the day. To learn something new and unrelated to anything in my life.

   
   Animals experience life at the most fundamental level. Fly. Run. Crawl. Hop. Eat. Sleep. Mate. Repeat. No existential questions of where they fit in this new life, or where they belong. Just living. This space gives me a chance to just breathe.

This work takes me out of the daily list of chores, tasks and to do lists. This is the space that helps me reset when I am overwhelmed with systems, apps and basic information overload.

And volunteering also provides community. A group of people who intentionally donate their time and energy to a single purpose. Shared experiences, interests. A world outside of caregiving or grief or reinvention.

💡Research shows caregivers fare better psychologically when they maintain meaningful roles outside caregiving, protecting their sense of identity from being consumed by the caregiver role.

During all of this, I received so much more than I gave…and still do.

What I learned is this:

• When life narrows in one direction, you have to expand it in another.

• Deliberately. Consistently. Without apology.

• Because belonging isn’t something you wait to feel again someday.

• It’s something you keep building—even in the hardest seasons of your life.

If this would be of value to you to hear more about how I restored my sense of belonging after 4 years of caregiving, Subscribe to Vicki’s Newsletter, “The Tender Warrior.”

As my free gift, when you sign up, you will receive the free download 7 Ways to Find Your Voice Again.

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I write about ways to belong to yourself again in my weekly newsletter “The Tender Warrior.” Because— I truly had to be a warrior most days, but for the man who was the absolute love of my life.

I use the word “widow” here as a general descriptor—one that includes widower, too

Someone asked if my husband was retired or still working, and without thinking too much about it, I answered:

“I’m a widow.”

It landed heavier than I expected.

I. Am. A. Widow.

It’s a word that feels like it wants to take over. Like it could become the first thing people see, and maybe the only thing. Quiet. Sad. Alone. A life defined by what’s missing. I’ve seen that version. The “widows table.” The smaller invitations. The subtle shift in how people relate to you.

That’s the part that unsettles me. Because it’s not the whole story. Not even close.

Years ago, sociologist Everett Cherrington Hughes described something called a master status—a single label that overrides everything else about a person. It can easily overshadow their other roles, achievements, or characteristics. Widow can easily become that.

But it isn’t who I am. It may be something that’s true about me. But it doesn’t get to define me.

This “labeling” of society often leads to contradictions, where one’s master status may not align with the person’s true identity. I might be labeled “widow,” but my identity is shaped by so much more - my work as a Realtor®, my journey in writing on Belonging as a former caregiver, the way in which I support my friends, and so much more.

We are all so multi-dimensional, it seems impossible to be identified with one word.

I’m still working. Still thinking. Still building a life. Still showing up for people I care about. Still figuring out what comes next. ****

• I don’t have to let one word define me.

• Widow is part of the story.

• It’s not the headline.

There was a moment when something shifted.

In June of 2025, Lee’s caregiver and I made the decision that I shouldn’t visit him anymore. He didn’t know who I was, and my presence made him anxious.

That was the moment. That was when I lost him completely.

Not the day he died.

Anticipatory Grief During The Long Goodbye

There’s a kind of grief that lives in that space—when someone is still here, but not really here. You don’t get a clean ending. You just slowly let go, piece by piece.

By the time he passed, I had already been grieving for a long time.

And alongside that grief, something else had started to take shape.

A decision, really. To keep going.

Not in a forced, “everything is fine” way. But in a deliberate way. I went back to work. I made changes at home. I paid attention to how I showed up again—what I wore, how I moved through my days. I booked travel. Some with friends. Some on my own. Small steps, but intentional ones.

Psychologist Dan P. McAdams writes that we make sense of our lives through the stories we build over time. Loss becomes part of that story, but it doesn’t have to be the ending. We define our lives through evolving stories, integrating past, present, and future. For a widow, this involves reconstructing a “life story” that incorporates the loss. Effective adaptation often includes redemption—finding positive meaning or growth from the loss. That feels right to me.

Something Else: Relief.

Writer Marti Lythgoe wrote about feeling that after her husband died from dementia, and I understood it immediately. My Husband Died of Dementia but I’m Not Sad. Am I Okay?

After everything Lee went through—and everything it took to care for him—I feel relief that he’s at peace.

And I feel relief for myself.

Not because I loved him any less. But because loving him through that required everything. The constant attention. The worry. The exhaustion. The loneliness that sits quietly in the background of caregiving.

People think grief starts at death. But if you’ve lived this, you know it starts much earlier. By the end, you’ve already carried so much of it.

So now, here I am.

Yes, I am a widow.

But I’m also still me.

Still capable of building something meaningful. Still connected. Still moving forward, with a life that includes everything we had—not erased, not diminished, just… integrated.

That’s how I want to live this next chapter.

• Not smaller.

• Not defined by loss.

• Just fully, and honestly, as myself.

Vicki.

I was a caregiver for my husband with Alzheimer’s. I write about Belonging to Self, Community and Home, both during and after caregiving.

Caregiving reshaped my idea of home. It became a place of constant demand—24/7, relentless, and often unforgiving. Yet with help, structure, and resilience, home could still be a place of love, care, and belonging.

Transitioning From The Caregiving Role

M, whose husband lived in the same ALF (Assisted Living Facility) as Lee for a time, met me for coffee recently. We talked about life after - she lost her husband almost 2 years ago, I lost Lee 1 month ago. I asked her about her connection to home and how it had changed.

“Home” Takes Many Forms

As we shared experiences it became clear that for both us “home” is not as much a physical structure but a feeling, a connection, a spirit. Something we had lost while on the caregiving journey with our husbands.

S, whose husband still lives at home, fears the day he may have to move to an ALF, and his “home” will change. And with a physical move, he will likely make connections with staff and residents, and have experiences, that she won’t share anymore. “Bob is kind, handsome, friendly…And I think—if he goes there, he may have a “girlfriend.” And he may not remember me. That bothers me… but I try to let it go.“

Both experiences resonate. Lee was at the center of what home meant to me. As he gradually slipped away, my feeling of home was broken from its moorings. I didn’t feel any connection to the physical space. When Lee moved to memory care, my connection to him as the full time, primary caregiver was severed - he no longer knew or recognized me.

What do you do when home no longer feels like home?

Research has documented 3 distinct phases of post-caregiving transitions: emptiness immediately after caregiving ends; closure of the caregiver journey; and moving towards a new life.

I’ve written about my **system** for belonging to home again - creating an open space that is inviting and welcoming, yet also a place of comfort and peace for me alone.

M. got back out in the world. Her close family included her in trips, dinners. She started saying yes to invitations. “What really started it was about six months after he passed—I got an invitation from church for a memorial mass. I hadn’t been going to church for years. Life just got busy. Kids, sports, everything. But I went—and I felt at home again. So slowly, I started going back.”

Returning to the church and the community it brings, restored her to a sense of being at home. M. found that going out can also mean going home.

S.’s path is different. She had to learn and manage the family finances, investments and real estate. Her husband had always handled it and now it was all on her. “We moved from a big home into a townhouse—which was good. But now I feel… trapped. He asks every morning: “What’s our agenda?” He watches TV all day. Sometimes I feel like the walls are closing in.”

S. has learned she only has to ask for help, and she can find peace in her home: “My sons are wonderful. On my birthday, they surprised me by staying overnight—just to be there. “

That showed her:

“I may feel alone… but I’m not alone.

I just have to ask for help.”

Belonging to Home means different things to different people - and it may also depend on their journey in life.

• Sometimes home is a place where we feel safe

• Sometimes it’s a feeling we have to rebuild

• Sometimes it’s found in community

• And sometimes it requires letting go of what once was

For those of us who have been caregivers—or are still in that role—this shift can be disorienting.

But it also opens the door to something new:

A different definition of home.

One that we create, intentionally, over time.

If this would be of value to you to hear more about how I restored my sense of community after 4 years of caregiving, Subscribe to Vicki’s Substack, “The Tender Warrior.”

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I write about ways to belong to yourself again (once you’ve lost her) in my weekly newsletter “The Tender Warrior.” Because— I truly had to be a warrior most days, but for the man who was the absolute love of my life.

Caregiving Requires Resilience — and a System to Care for Yourself

After a few years of “going it alone” while caring for Lee, I came to understand a few things:

1. My body was telling me I couldn’t keep doing it this way. It was sending me data in the form of fatigue, headaches, stress, and depression.

2. I was trying to solve a problem that had only one ending. Alzheimer’s is a terminal disease. A turning point in protecting my own health was accepting that this was a problem I could not solve. But I could love him and care for him to the end. I needed a system to help me do that.

3. I needed help. I needed a community—a network of people who could step in at different moments, in different ways. As I built that circle of support, something shifted. My strength returned. My resilience deepened. And I could meet my husband with a steadiness I didn’t have before.

Author and researcher Eric Markowitz describes one of the most resilient systems in nature: a forest. A forest is not resilient because each individual tree is “tough.” It is resilient because it is interconnected. If one tree is attacked by pests, it sends signals through the fungal network in the soil to warn the others. If a clearing opens up, surrounding trees move to fill the gap. In nature, the whole is stronger than any one part.

That principle applies to caregiving, too.

How I strengthened my resilience through community after trying to do caregiving alone:

Caregiving is constant—24/7, relentless, unforgiving. Lived moment to moment, it can crush your soul. But with a system of support—and the resilience to use it—you can carry what feels impossible.

We often think of resilience as part of a hero’s journey — something solitary, noble, and self-contained. But resilience is rarely built alone. More often, resilience is created through a network of support, and through hundreds of small decisions that make endurance possible. Another word for that is community.

1. I reconnected with old friends.

I leaned into three close friends who had known me for 20 to 30 years, and who knew Lee almost as well. Their perspective mattered because they knew who he had been before Alzheimer’s, and they understood what I was losing. Knowing I could call them at any time reminded me I was not alone.

2. I built a network of experts.

This included medical professionals who could explain the progression of the disease, caregivers and support professionals who shared practical guidance, and staff at the assisted living facility who could observe Lee in ways I could not. I learned to measure success in small wins. I also learned that even when professionals disagreed with me, I was still the expert on my husband.

3. I made room for my own needs.

Research shows caregivers fare better psychologically when they maintain meaningful roles outside caregiving, protecting their sense of identity from being consumed by the caregiver role.

I paid attention to my need for friendship, connection, and belonging. Volunteering, game nights, book club, leading a group and simply telling friends what I needed — which was not easy — all became part of my support system. And that system made me more resilient. In turn, it helped me become a steadier caregiver, care partner, and wife.

Another place resilience is found: Faith

Former spousal caregivers I’ve spoken with have also shared that they leaned into their faith, especially when their journey as caregiver ended.

During caregiving, the demands on their schedules kept them from sharing in the comforting rituals and routines of the spiritual community that once grounded them. Returning to those activities recharged the soul, provided outlets for meaningful discussion, and opportunities for social activities with like-minded people.

Resilience does not come from individual toughness. It comes from the strength of the systems we build around us.

If this would be of value to you to hear more about how I restored my sense of community after 4 years of caregiving, Subscribe to Vicki’s Substack, “The Tender Warrior.”

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Belonging means more than just loving. It means including.

True belonging—to self, community, or home—requires both the emotion of love and the act of including.

I read a post by a writer who captured this beautifully. For years, she’d been woven into the fabric of her family’s life—especially during holidays. She was in the kitchen with the grandkids, roasting the turkey, making cookies, soaking in their stories of school and camp. She was embedded in their lives.

Because she’d lost her husband five years earlier, these celebrations were essential to her sense of belonging. As the children and grandchildren slowly created their own ways of celebrating—which didn’t include her—she felt pushed aside. She was no longer included.

But her story stopped there.

What if she had written: “And that’s when I asked myself, what am I going to do now?” Could she create her own story, build her own experiences and traditions as she becomes someone new?

Could I?

Role Exit Theory, developed by Helen Rose Fuchs Ebaugh, describes what happens when people leave a life-defining role—spouse, professional, nun. The caregiver transition maps directly to this process.

Key Aspects of Role Exit Theory:

• Definition: Ebaugh (1988) defines this as disengaging from a role central to one’s identity.

• The Four Stages:

  1. Doubt: Feeling dissatisfaction, unhappiness, or lack of fulfillment in your current role. It took a long time to say this, but I was unfulfilled and lonely as a caregiver; as devoted as I was, it didn’t support me or lift me up.

  2. Alternatives: Searching for new options, evaluating them, and realizing life outside the role is possible. I gradually tried out new experiences and a new role in life. Travel. Learning. New friendships.

  3. Turning Points: Specific moments or decisions that trigger the actual exit. When visiting Lee wasn’t possible anymore, I understood that it was time for me to move forward, even in baby steps.

  4. Creation of New Identity: Building a new identity that often incorporates the past “ex-role.” I honor Lee every day, by lingering over a photo or when a small event triggers a happy memory. The roles I lived in with Lee-both wife and caregiver-will help shape who I am becoming.

• Application: Role exit helps us understand transitions like divorce, retirement, leaving a religious order, quitting a job—or leaving the caregiver role.

• Role of “Ex”: People often struggle with shifting roles and must learn to define themselves outside their former identity. It is taking time to get comfortable in this new “skin”. It think that’s healthy. It’s all a work in progress.

Caregiving transitions map closely onto this framework. I transitioned from wife to caregiver. Now, I’m transitioning from caregiver to—who?

Include Yourself in Your Own Life

Belonging to self is a deep, internal, active commitment to self-acceptance, autonomy, and self-love—being your own best advocate.

When my husband declined to the point where he didn’t know me and moved to Assisted Living, I essentially became a widow. Not married, not single—many of you know this feeling.

I tried several things to feel “normal” again:

• I tried to recreate my past life, just without my husband. The evening routine of the evening news and a glass of wine, then dinner. Trying out new recipes. Sunday mornings on the porch with the paper. These were easily replicated, but without my partner they felt meaningless.

• I tried to insert myself into the lives of friends who had shown so much support. I invited them over, suggested dinner out, perhaps a movie. In many cases I ran into a brick wall—”we’ll take a rain check.” After several rejections, I realized the support only went so far. They were embedded in their own unique lives.

• I tried to reconnect with friends from my distant past—colleagues, coworkers, friends from college and my younger days. We had some laughs about “old times,” but there was a strain once we got past the reminiscences.

Nothing worked. And it was hurtful. I felt rejected, isolated, and very alone.

But over time—not coincidentally, as I started writing and researching my grief—I realized three things:

• I can’t go back. I can treasure the memories of shared routines and rituals, but without my partner, I was going through the motions.

• Not every friend who supported me through the years of grief is going to include me in their life now. As well-intentioned and sincere as friends are, not all are going to open up their lives to include me. The support ended with “thoughts and prayers.” And that doesn’t indicate anything bad about them—it’s just all they can give. There’s no playbook for this, and we all have our own journeys to travel.

• I give myself permission to evolve, learn, and create a whole new life—a new universe—without needing outside acceptance. Permission is key. No guilt, no reservations, no second-guessing. I am allowed to pursue interests, activities, and dreams without seeking permission or acceptance.

“Belonging to self” means trusting your gut, prioritizing your needs, and above all, honoring your worth—regardless of external validation. Once you’re comfortable in your secure, authentic identity, you can stand alone without fear of loneliness or isolation. In fact, I believe the world will want to come to you.

This life is a journey—filled with incredible sorrow and total joy. We live somewhere in between most of the time.

I was a caregiver for my husband with Alzheimer’s for four years and lost my sense of who I was along the way. I write about ways to belong to yourself again (once you’ve lost her) in my weekly newsletter “The Tender Warrior.” Because— I truly had to be a warrior most days, but for the man who was the absolute love of my life.

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One of the most important lessons I’m learning about my relationship to home:

It doesn’t need to stay the same. It evolves, just as my life and my community do.

What is home to you?

• Lock and leave — convenient, low maintenance, minimal attachment. A place to land between travels.

• Retreat and refuge — a safe space to recharge, to be fully yourself, and to connect with those closest to you.

• Entertaining base — a home filled with people, music, and gatherings—large and small—where you are rarely alone.

• Designer showcase — every room intentional and beautiful. A reflection of identity through design. Comfortable, but not always cozy.

However you define it, there are universal truths about what home provides.

Home is more than a physical space—it supports something deeper. As psychologist Dr. Peggy Loo notes, there are real mental health benefits to living in a space where you feel comfortable, where you feel it is your own, where you can truly be yourself.

In many ways, home sits at the center of what we need most. It holds both safety and belonging—two foundational elements of a meaningful life.

Home offers:

• Emotional and physical safety

• A sense of personal identity

• Territory—something that is yours

• Familiar sensory experiences—sounds, smells, light—that ground you

• A place for connection, where relationships deepen and community forms

It is not just where we live. It is where we belong—to ourselves, and to others.

As I find myself on the other side of caregiving for my husband with Alzheimer’s, my understanding of home has shifted profoundly.

Over time, our home changed. What was once a place of joy, ease, and shared life became something more clinical—designed to prevent falls, manage routines, administer medications. It became functional. Necessary.

But it no longer felt like home.

During those years, I experienced a quiet but profound crisis of meaning and identity. For most of our marriage, my definition of home was simple: Wherever Lee and I were together—that was home. Our connection defined it. Our partnership gave it shape.

As his condition declined, that definition was slowly—and then completely—taken from me.

I had to face a difficult truth: Home, as I knew it, no longer existed. But I had to keep going.

Caring for him. Managing the day-to-day.

And eventually, letting him go into Assisted Living.

Reconstructing “home” has become part of rebuilding my life.

It is still evolving. But it has become a pillar of strength as I move forward.

What was once simply a refuge is becoming something more expansive:

• A gathering place for traveling friends

• Weekly game nights

• A starting point for a walking group

• A space where someone can stop by for coffee or a quick hello

Home is no longer only where I retreat. It is where I reconnect—with life, with others, and with myself.

This evolution didn’t happen by accident. It required intention.

• I designed my home with distinct spaces—areas for conversation, for quiet, for connection.

• I created openness—room to move, to breathe, to simply be.

• I leaned into outdoor space—a porch that invites reading, resting, listening, or doing nothing at all.

And I brought Lee with me, in a different way. We collected art together. Those pieces now hang on my walls—each one holding a memory, a story, a moment in time.

They connect me to him. They remind me of love.

There is a concept called adaptive grief—the idea that we move between honoring loss, drawing strength from memory, integrating what has changed, and creating space to continue living.

I see that in my own life. I draw strength from what remains.

Each version of home serves a purpose. Each creates belonging in its own way. And sometimes, life asks you to redefine it completely.

Your sense of home may change. And when it does—you have the opportunity to rebuild it in a way that reflects who you are now.

If this would be of value to you to hear more about how I restored my sense of community after 4 years of caregiving, Subscribe to Vicki’s Substack, “The Tender Warrior”

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I was a caregiver of a husband with Alzheimers for 4 years and lost sense of who I was along the way.

I write to help others who feel isolated in losing the love of their life To find a sense of belonging after.

Each small step matters.

Caregiving compresses your world. It can quietly isolate you.

When my husband was initially diagnosed with Alzheimer’s in early 2022, we still lived a fairly normal life.

But a year later, he was increasingly dependent on me.

It was beginning to crush me.

We could no longer enjoy the activities we once shared—golf, dinners with friends, travel, working on house projects. All the small things we took for granted that connected us to friends, family, and community were slipping away.

The people we’d have monthly dinners with stopped calling to make plans. When I reached out to schedule something, the responses became “let’s take a rain check”—which really meant “it’s just too hard.”

My life had quietly shifted from ‘wife’ and companion to ‘constant caregiver.’ And somewhere in that transition, I lost all sense of — me.

I wasn’t just grieving my husband’s decline. I was grieving a total loss of identity. I was grieving losing my partner.

And I was grieving this enormous loss of belonging to a community that fed us, dined with us, and gave of their time to us.

The US Surgeon General has declared an “epidemic of loneliness and isolation.” A Harvard study concluded that the No. 1 factor in a longer, healthier, happier life is not diet or exercise, but a positive and consistent connection to community. The study finds that people who feel lonely or isolated are at increased risk for developing coronary artery disease, stroke, depression, high blood pressure, declining thinking skills, an inability to perform daily living tasks, or an early death. It goes on to list ways to combat loneliness (I’ve highlighted in red the ones that worked for me in those days of caregiving):

• Connect meaningfully with family and friends in a way that works best for you: whether by phone, via video chat, or even by talking with your neighbors across the fence or in a park.

• Be thankful. Loneliness can lead people to focus on themselves and their hardships. Aim to express appreciation toward friends, family, and strangers.

• Focus on what you can change. Spending time dwelling on your current situation can perpetuate loneliness; rather, focus your attention on something within your control and work at it.

• Enjoy being busy. Complete a chore, spend time writing, find a new hobby, or just allow yourself to delve into a new activity.

• Remove negativity and smile. Surround yourself with people and activities that bring you joy. Consider taking a break from the news, or at least limiting your consumption. Just the act of smiling can make you feel better.

• Be kind, understanding, and patient. Work on treating yourself and others with compassion. Engaging in pleasurable interactions can also help those around you, and may result in deeper connections.

• Develop a routine that provides balance and familiarity. Create a daily plan that includes physical activity, time for connecting with loved ones, a project or hobby, and a relaxing pleasure.

Start with one small step. Reach out in ways that fit your life now.

In that tough season of life, I did one very courageous thing to manage the pressure:

I joined a book club.

It sounds small, but it wasn’t. It forced me to read. To think. To leave the house for a few hours each month and sit in conversation. We discussed things.

Themes. Characters. Plot lines.

Reading fiction offers real health benefits. Your heart rate slows, breathing deepens and becomes more regular, and muscle tension decreases. This focused attention shifts your nervous system from “fight-or-flight” mode toward “rest-and-digest.” How Reading Books Regulates Your Nervous System.

Any group activity—structured or not—restored my sense of belonging to something bigger.

For a couple of hours, I wasn’t a caregiver. I was Vicki again.

That mattered—and it made a huge difference in how I looked at my life.

A book club—one small, deliberate step back into community—helped me remember who I was and that I still belonged.

If this would be of value to you to hear more about how I restored my sense of community after 4 years of caregiving, Subscribe to Vicki’s Substack, “The Tender Warrior”

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One of the things I learned as a caregiver for my husband with Alzheimer’s:

I can’t control the external circumstances of life. But I can control how I interpret and react to them.

It starts with getting dressed.

After Lee’s diagnosis, we both felt powerless, like pawns in some grotesque game being played out in the universe. I’m sure people diagnosed with cancer or another terminal disease (ALS, Parkinsons, Hodgkins…) feel something similar.

Nothing in life had prepared either of us for the journey ahead. And Lee, facing the imminent loss of memories and the eventual near-total cognitive loss, was in denial at first. I think the depth of what he felt about the diagnosis was hard for him to access and articulate, so he held on to me for as long as he could.

In a moment of clarity, he told me he understood this wasn’t the life I signed up for, and he hoped I would do all the things I wanted after he was gone.

But that wasn’t how I played this out:

1. I immediately made plans to travel (while Lee could still enjoy it). Alaska, Canada, The Ocean Course at Kiawah, trips back to his home town for visits with family. Mt. Rushmore. Looking back, those trips helped us maintain some normalcy and kept the wolf at the door.

2. We faced the world. Lee always paid attention to his appearance. Not a trend setter, but clean and put together, telling the world, “This is how I want to be seen.” For as long as it was possible, he carefully chose his outfits for the day and presented himself to the world. We both did. It was one small thing we could control. For a moment, we found strength amid circumstances we couldn’t control.

3. To me, Lee’s attention to how he looked sent a message: “I show up.” And that’s the thing—in business, with our family and friends, and in our daily activities, the act of showing up is a pillar of commitment and respect. We start with our outward appearance.

Alyona Synenko of the New York Times writes about the toll the Russia/Ukraine war is taking on Ukraine’s population: “We dress to show not only who we are but also who we want to be. We dress to impress and to attract the attention of other people and show off. But we also dress out of defiance; to look fabulous is to deny the power of any dreariness around us. We dress for a better world. Maybe that can conjure it into being or just manifest a smile out of the others around us.”

Ms. Synenko goes on to describe women in refugee aid camps around the world, facing food and water shortages, making themselves elaborate dresses. “It was a way for them to be part of their community and to reinforce a sense of self beyond the immediate circumstances they could not control.”

• Now I pay close attention to my wardrobe and what it says about me. I’ve organized it so I don’t experience “decision fatigue” every day. My choices have a singular purpose: What message does it convey? Does it say, “I show up”?

Sometimes we don’t wait to feel ready. We start by walking the walk.

Finding your way as a caregiver can feel like an isolating journey, but it doesn’t have to. Subscribe to my newsletter, The Tender Warrior, to learn how simple steps can help you hang onto a sense of the normal.

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I was a caregiver of a husband with Alzheimers for 4 years and lost sense of who I was along the way. I write to help others who feel isolated in losing the love of their life to find a sense of belonging after.