The Caregiver’s Paradox

A woman recently reached out to me looking for support as she cared for her aging mother with dementia. She was also supporting her adult daughter and helping care for her granddaughter.

As we exchanged messages, something became apparent. She couldn't find time to fit in the very support she was seeking for herself.

She wanted help and knew it would be valuable, especially as her mother's condition deteriorated and the demands on her escalated.

But she had become so practiced at responding to everyone else's needs first that her own repeatedly slipped to the bottom of the list.

I, too, grew up believing that caring for myself is what happens after everyone else is okay. 

We think that if we stay vigilant enough, attentive enough, and selfless enough, everyone we love will be okay—and only then will we have permission to tend to ourselves.

Making sure everyone else is okay becomes the very thing that helps us feel safe, so we stick to it. We put our heads down and "press on." My mom used to say that to my sisters and me, "Just press on, girls."

The problem is...that day rarely comes.

I see this with parents. With adult children caring for aging parents. With spouses. Teachers. Nurses. Therapists. Friends. Helpers.

The roles change, but the pattern doesn't.

Self-care can begin to feel like something we have to earn by being exceptional, selfless, productive, or endlessly capable.

Our culture celebrates the people who hold everything together—and make it look effortless. We admire them, but we don't always pause to notice what it costs them.

Exhaustion. Chronic vigilance. Loneliness of being the one holding it all together. And grief that has no place to be felt. Our needs gradually disappear beneath everyone else's.

The irony is that the people who are most practiced at offering support and care to others are often the least likely to extend that same care to themselves. Isn't that curious?

We tend to think of caregiving as an expression of a compassionate heart—and it certainly can be. But sometimes something else is woven into it, too: being needed, helpful, capable, and selfless become tied to our sense of belonging. If everyone else is okay because of us, perhaps we feel a little more secure in our place in the world.

That can make stepping back, saying no, or allowing someone else to take care of us feel surprisingly uncomfortable.

That’s a big topic to save for another day, but suffice it to say that our well-being isn't separate from what we offer. It is an essential part of it. It might even be the most important part. 

What do I mean by self-care?

I think we've done ourselves a disservice in how we talk about self-care. Most of us envision bubble baths, manicures, a glass of wine, or a massage.

There is nothing wrong with any of these things, and lord knows I'm the first one to climb into a hot bath for a long soak with candles and an audiobook. That's pure bliss!

Pleasure matters. Rest matters. Enjoying our lives matters. But sometimes what we call self-care falls into the pampering category, which is important and has its place.

But sometimes the self-care we most need isn't particularly comfortable. It’s the ways we relate to ourselves, talk to ourselves, and treat our own difficult feelings and unwanted needs.

Deep self-care can look like telling the truth about how we're actually doing or what we’re feeling, saying no when we've already said yes too many times, disappointing someone rather than abandoning ourselves, turning off our phones and letting our nervous systems settle, sitting quietly long enough to hear what we actually feel.

Deep self-care can also look like noticing the old story that says, "Everyone else comes first," and doing the inner work to understand why that story feels so compelling in the first place.

Those things might not be as fun as binge-watching a favorite show, but they sure are meaningful.

Pampering feels good, but deeper self-care helps us move down the path toward coming home to ourselves.

A bubble bath can be luxurious and wonderful.
Deeper self-care might be realizing you need support and reaching out to a therapist, coach, friend, or other trusted person.

A little treat can make an ordinary day feel special.
Deeper self-care might be setting a boundary that protects your time, energy, or emotional well-being.

A pedicure feels fancy and fun.
Deeper self-care might be forgiving yourself for a past mistake.

Sometimes self-care is soft. Sometimes it is uncomfortable and prickly.

It might ask us to slow down and let someone else step up. That is especially important for those of us who have built our identities around being the capable ones.

When you've spent years being the person everyone can count on, allowing yourself to have needs can feel uncomfortable. But receiving care doesn't make you any less capable. It just makes you human- and yes, I am talking to myself here!

Whether you're raising children, supporting aging parents, managing a career while tending the hearth, caretaking a loved one, nurturing a new relationship, or finding your way through a challenging phase of life, your needs matter, too.

Not because you've earned a break or because you've finally crossed everything off your list. And not because everyone else is okay.

But because you are a whole person—so much more than just a giver. A person worthy of love, care, rest, and peace.

The people who love you don't need what you do for them. They need you!

All of you.

And perhaps this is where self-care becomes something deeper: learning to accept yourself as you are, rather than trying to earn your worth through what you do for others. Remembering to offer yourself the same compassion, patience, and love that you so readily offer the people you care for.

I wonder if caring for yourself isn't taking time to step away from the people who depend on you, but rather one of the most loving and true ways to remain with them.

It is also a way of coming home to yourself.