What Happened When I Finally Spoke My Truth
I stopped saying "I'm fine."
When I first started writing on Substack in March 2026, I published a piece called How Are You Doing?
Lee was in his final decline when I wrote it. He passed away two days later.
Since then I’ve been writing three times a week — about belonging to self, to community, and to home. That’s a lot of writing. A lot of reflection and research. And from that, comes growth.
So the question “How are you doing?” has taken on a whole different meaning.
When Lee first showed symptoms, and even after his diagnosis in early 2022, we could still live a fairly normal life. I filled in the blanks, supported him, and we mostly got through the day. That would change over the next two years. His needs eventually overwhelmed what I could manage alone, and he moved through three different memory care homes — the last one finally being the place of comfort, dignity, and loving support he deserved.
In the end, his brain was simply too tired. It gave up on his body. The end, while fierce, was quick — and we were quietly held by one of our local hospice organizations.
In the first few days after he passed, the question, “How are you doing?” just kind of slipped right by me. Even though I had lost Lee over a year earlier to Alzheimer’s, the finality of his physical passing was more of a blow than I expected.
“How are you doing? I’m relieved for him. I’m relieved for me. I’m ready for this — it’s a blessing. I’m fine.”
I said it in March, and I’ll say it again. Here’s what I wrote then:
The truth of the matter was — it didn’t begin to scratch the surface of how I was doing. I had spent four years caring for my husband with Alzheimer’s. It had become a deeply painful time in my life. Daily, I felt a mix of grief. Loss of self. Possibly relief as he was transitioning. But for now, “I’m good” was all I could muster.
For now — survive. Manage. Reach out. Cry.
It takes time to truly arrive at a full and truthful answer, having processed all the feelings. It came gradually — and surprisingly. But that doesn’t mean the discussion can’t happen.
I was angry. Part of me probably always will be — for what Lee had to endure, for a healthcare system that let us down. I was, and am, sad that we won’t get to live the life together that we both deserved.
But something has happened along this journey. I have continued writing. Sharing the ways I survived caregiving, how the journey during and after caregiving has changed me, and the ways I am taking control of my life — because Alzheimer’s took that away for a while — and coming back to myself.
The Wall I Built Without Knowing It
I have never been one to share my whole story. I’ve always held back.
Who wants to know, anyway? It’s just a burden.
There’s research that supports this pattern — fear of judgment or oversharing leads people to emotionally isolate themselves. It feels safe. But it comes across as cold and distant. I put up walls without even knowing I had. Fear of rejection, fear of abandonment — these are the things that make us protect ourselves by disappearing from the very people who want to reach us.
I was doing it without knowing I was doing it. I was holding back, staying safe, just nodding my head or quickly changing the subject. If I’m honest, I was putting up walls between myself and those who cared, thinking it was safe. In the end it only isolated me more.
The Turning Point
And then a strange thing happened while I was writing and sharing my story — my vulnerability — with anyone who chose to read it:
My world opened up.
A friend asked me two weeks ago: How are you doing?
And instead of Fine, I’m good — I told her the truth. I explained that I am working through this time. Sometimes I am sad. Other times I am angry. But most of the time I am moving forward — working, planning, writing, getting on with life. I caught myself immediately and apologized for giving too much information.
She stopped me. No, she said. That’s what I want. I don’t want the canned answer. I want to hear the deep stuff.
I didn’t have a wall up. And she walked right through the space where it used to be.
I had shared a part of myself — not the rehearsed, practiced version, but the true and vulnerable one. The one I had been carefully protecting for years without quite realizing it.
Taking that wall down, piece by piece, is the work now. Opening my world again to community, friendships, and support. Not all at once, but steadily, one honest conversation at a time.
Find Your Voice - and With it, Permission.
Everything I’m doing contributed to this growth. But it’s the writing — my voice — that really strengthened me. It gave me permission to reach outward. To stop performing okayness and start living it instead.
So — and I cannot say this strongly enough — find your voice.
For me, it’s writing. Writing has given me permission to open up. For you, it might be something else entirely. The arts — music, drama, painting. Textiles — pottery, knitting, quilting. Mentoring — teaching, leading, giving back to a community that carried you when you couldn’t carry yourself.
Whatever it is, find it. Because finding my voice has opened up a whole new space.
I had to leave survive mode and enter thrive mode. I am finding my empathy again. My gratitude, my compassion, my curiosity — all the things that caregiving quietly drained, one year at a time. My writing gave them back to me. Not all at once, and not without effort, but steadily, one essay at a time.
Everything I’m doing now — working in real estate, writing, planning travel, actually answering when friends ask how I’m doing — is opening me back up to my community. They were there all along. I just needed to meet them again.
So — how are you doing?
Not the formula answer. The real one.
I’d love to hear it.
How are you doing — really? Not the formula answer. The real one. I’d love to hear it in the comments.
Do you feel as if you’ve lost yourself and your way in caregiving? Get my free checklist, 7 Ways to Find Your Voice. Allow yourself the opportunity to take up space and find expression once again.