Posts in category: Blog

If one more person tells you to “just be grateful” while you’re juggling adult diapers, insurance claims, and emotional burnout, you might scream. For those in long-term caregiving roles—whether for aging parents, disabled partners, or chronically ill children—gratitude can sound like a naive suggestion, a soft whisper in the middle of a storm.

But what if I told you that gratitude isn’t just a mindset? It’s a neurological intervention.

And Neither Are You

“When something bad happens to you, you have three choices. You can let it define you. You can let it destroy you. Or you can let it strengthen you.”

That quote, often misattributed to Dr. Seuss but no less wise for its anonymous origin, has echoed in my mind for years. I returned to it again and again after my life changed without warning—I became a caregiver.

Like many, I didn’t choose this path. One day I was living a version of life that felt “normal,” and the next, I was making medical appointments, managing medications, learning to advocate in clinical settings, and redefining who I was in the process. It felt seismic. Caregiving reorders your days, redefines your relationships, reorders your priorities, and reveals who you are when no one’s watching.

Until Life Gave Me No Choice

Gratitude isn’t something I grew up understanding. Like many people, I associated it with moments of good fortune—a warm meal, a lucky break, the occasional holiday toast. It felt optional. Comfortable. Something to practice when life was already going well.

Then life stopped going well.

Forgive me if the title of this week’s Op-Ed feels a bit dark — but for many, this is an especially challenging time of year.

I’m sure you’ve been through something like this:

The chair was still there — same spot, same holiday table — but she no longer knew whose place it was. Last Christmas, she told the same story five times before the turkey had even been carved. This year, she said nothing at all.

The holidays are supposed to be a time of warmth, laughter, and family. But for those of us carrying loss — whether it’s fresh and raw, or the slow ache of watching a loved one disappear into dementia, Parkinson’s, or MS — this season often magnifies the emptiness. The songs tell us to be merry. The movies end in joyful reunions. But behind many closed doors, the holidays echo with the silence of who’s missing, or the fading presence of someone still here but no longer fully themselves.

Grief is not a moment. It’s not a season. And for those of us caring for someone with a terminal illness like Alzheimer’s or Parkinson’s, it is not something we get through—it is something we live inside.

We don’t grieve only at the funeral. We grieve at the diagnosis, when the neurologist confirms what we already feared. We grieve when a once-vibrant parent can’t recall the names of their grandchildren. We grieve every time a word is lost, a fall occurs, a favorite activity becomes impossible, or a familiar face becomes unfamiliar. And then, long after death has come, when the casseroles are gone and the condolences stop, we grieve again. Not out of weakness or sentimentality, but because we have lived through a series of losses no one ever taught us how to name.

I was halfway through a plate of grilled breakfast potatoes when I noticed something strange: they were… sweet. Not dessert-sweet, but enough to raise an eyebrow. Could it be that even roasted potatoes were being glazed?

Yes — and that realization opened a deeper mystery. Even for health-conscious diners and people managing diabetes or insulin resistance, sugar is lurking in foods we’ve been taught to trust: roasted vegetables, salad dressings, grilled meats, even hollandaise sauce. You could easily hit — or exceed — your recommended sugar intake in a single restaurant meal without ever tasting anything overtly sugary.

Every day, millions of older adults take medications that were never tested on people like them—and too often, they pay the price in side effects, falls, or unnecessary hospitalizations.

We’re treating seniors with a system designed for younger bodies and simpler lives. It’s not just outdated. It’s dangerous.

When a loved one dies, the world expects grief. But for caregivers, the mourning is more complicated. Alongside the heartbreak is something quieter, harder to name: the loss of identity, the guilt of relief, and the disorientation that comes when a role so consuming suddenly vanishes. Caregivers don’t just grieve the person—they grieve the purpose. And when the caregiving ends, many are left asking not just “What now?”—but “Who am I now?”

Janis shared with me that, “After my mother died, I found myself replaying every moment of her final weeks — the times I was impatient, the days I felt too tired to sit by her bed. The care was over, but the guilt had only just begun.”

I was crushed to hear the agony in her voice as she relayed this self-imposed burden after the passing of her mother. She had already made incredible sacrifices to bring her mother into her home and care for her for nearly fifteen years. Now she faced the unbearable weight of guilt — an invisible burden heavier than the caregiving itself.

When I walked into urgent care with a swollen, discolored leg and the terrifying suspicion that I might have a blood clot, I wasn’t just a worried patient — I was an experienced healthcare advocate. I knew the signs of deep vein thrombosis. I knew what tests to ask for. I knew how to navigate red tape, push past resistance, and demand timely care. And still, it took hours of persistence, multiple follow-ups, and escalating pressure just to get the proper diagnosis and treatment. My experience is not an outlier — it’s a symptom of a deeply inadequate system. In American healthcare, getting the care you need too often depends not on how sick you are, but on how well you can advocate for yourself. And that’s a terrifying prospect for the millions who can’t.