By Grace Macalino Schauf, Founder of Kapwa AllCare
This isn’t advice. It’s just what caregiving feels like sometimes — when you’re holding the hands of two aging parents and trying not to lose your own balance.
My dad is 87. My mom will be 85 soon.
She has short-term memory loss — forgets conversations, repeats stories, gets frustrated when things don’t make sense.
My dad shoulders most of the daily care. He’s patient, loving, and so damn tired. He tries to keep his humor, but I see the way his spirit slumps sometimes when she lashes out and then forgets. But he doesn’t.
And then there’s me — caregiving for both of them.
Caring for my mom, yes, but also for my dad, who’s caring for her.
It’s like standing in the middle of a storm, trying to build a shelter while holding up the sky.
When my dad calls, I can hear it in his voice — the fatigue, the worry, the helpless love. He can’t truly let in my Mom’s memory loss. He still says “Don’t you remember?”. He still refuses to “lie” to her out of his love and commitment – sometimes to his detriment. But he keeps showing up like the strong, powerful, loving Dad he’s always been.
Sometimes he just needs to talk, and sometimes he needs me to fix something.
And I never quite know which version it is until I’m already halfway through the conversation.
All I want is to make it easier. To make their pain go away.
But I can’t.
So I listen. I stumble. I do my best.
Some days, I hang up the phone and feel empty.
There are moments — I’ll be honest — when I think about having a drink in the middle of the day.
Not because I want to disappear, but because for just a moment, I’d like to quiet the noise, soften the ache, let the edge of responsibility fade.
Of course, I don’t. I know it won’t fix anything.
But that longing — that flash of wanting something to take the edge off — that’s real.
Being a caregiver for caregivers means you’re always translating pain.
My mom forgets. My dad remembers.
I hold both realities, trying to stay kind, trying to stay sane, trying not to resent the weight of being the “strong one.
”Sometimes the only thing that helps is crying. Not because something’s wrong but because there has to be a release of all the things I am holding at the time. And I’m learning that I can cry and it’s ok. They sometimes translate what I just can’t put into words.
The hardest part is that so much of this love goes unseen.
People see aging parents and think it’s noble — but they don’t see the constant decisions, the grief inside the daily routine, the way your life shape-shifts around their needs.If you’re here — if you’re holding two lives together with your own hands, if you’ve ever thought “I can’t do this” and then somehow did it anyway — this is for you.You are not weak for feeling tired.
You are not selfish for wanting rest.
You are not alone.
Your love is the work. And it’s okay to admit that sometimes, love just hurts.
Written for the Kapwa AllCare community Have a story to share?
Whether it’s tender, funny, or hard to tell — we welcome your voice.Send your story or reflection to [hello@kapwaallcare.com], and help us grow this community of Radical Love & Connection.
