National Family Caregivers Month: Acceptance, Grief, and the Impossible Advice

November is National Family Caregivers Month, which means well-intentioned articles are popping up everywhere reminding caregivers to "practice self-care" and "don't forget about yourself." The advice usually sounds something like: Take a relaxing bath. Go for a walk. Meet a friend for coffee. Join a support group. Make time for your hobbies.

And if you're a caregiver reading that list, you might be thinking: With what time? With what energy? And who exactly is going to stay with my loved one while I'm out living my best life?

The gap between the advice and the reality can feel almost cruel. Because the truth is, caregiving often doesn't leave room for the self-care we're told we desperately need. The person you're caring for can't be left alone. The nights are broken. The worry is constant. And even when you do carve out a moment, guilt tends to fill it.

So let's talk about what's actually happening when you're caring for someone you love who is declining. Let's talk about the grief that lives alongside the caregiving, and what it might mean to walk someone home.

The Grief That Comes Before

Caregiving often involves a particular kind of grief that doesn't fit neatly into our cultural understanding of loss. Your loved one is still here, still breathing, still in the room with you. But they're also... not quite here anymore. Not in the way they used to be.

Maybe it's dementia, and the person who raised you no longer recognizes your face. Maybe it's a progressive illness, and each month brings another loss — first the ability to walk, then to feed themselves, then to speak clearly. Maybe it's a stroke or brain injury, and the personality you knew has shifted in ways that are subtle but unmistakable.

This is anticipatory grief, and it's exhausting in a way that's hard to explain to people who haven't lived it. You're grieving while also staying present. You're mourning losses while simultaneously trying to prevent new ones. You're saying goodbye in slow motion, and there's no clear endpoint, no moment when you're allowed to fully feel it because you're still needed, still on duty, still showing up.

And here's what makes it even more complicated: you might feel guilty for grieving someone who's still alive. You might feel selfish for missing who they used to be when you should just be grateful they're still here. The emotional math doesn't add up, and that's because grief doesn't follow logic.

When Self-Care Advice Misses the Mark

This is why the standard self-care advice often falls flat for caregivers. It's not that bubble baths and walks in nature aren't lovely things. It's that they require a kind of freedom and mental space that caregiving simply doesn't allow.

You can't "take a break" from anticipatory grief. You can't schedule your worry for convenient times. And you certainly can't leave your loved one alone so you can go to yoga class when they need help getting to the bathroom every hour.

The advice isn't wrong, exactly. It's just... incomplete. It doesn't account for the reality that caregiving is often a 24/7 role with no backup, no vacation days, and no clear end date.

A Different Kind of Caring for Yourself

So, what does self-care actually look like when traditional self-care isn't possible?

Maybe it's this: acceptance.

Not acceptance in the sense of giving up or resigning yourself to misery. But acceptance of what this season of life actually is. Acceptance that you're doing something incredibly hard. Acceptance that you're going to feel grief and exhaustion and sometimes resentment, and that none of those feelings make you a bad person or a bad caregiver.

Acceptance that you can't do this perfectly. That you're going to lose your patience sometimes. That you're going to feel touched out and tired and like you can't possibly do this for one more day — and then you're going to do it for one more day anyway.

Acceptance that this isn't a problem to be solved with better time management or a more positive attitude. It's a profound human experience that deserves to be honored as such.

When you accept the reality of what you're living through, something shifts. You stop fighting against the impossibility of it all. You stop measuring yourself against advice that was never designed for your situation. You give yourself permission to simply be in it, to feel what you feel, to do what you can do.

And sometimes, self-care in the midst of caregiving looks like asking for help with the specific, concrete things. Not "let me know if you need anything," but "I need someone to sit with Mom on Tuesday afternoon so I can go to my own doctor's appointment." Not trying to do it all but naming one thing that would actually make a difference and letting someone help with that one thing.

The Honor of Walking Someone Home

There's a phrase that's been meaningful to many caregivers: walking someone home. It captures something that "caregiving" doesn't quite convey — the sacred nature of accompanying someone through their final chapter, of being present as they make their way toward whatever comes next.

It's an honor, truly. To be the person someone trusts with their most vulnerable moments. To hold their hand, literally and figuratively, as they navigate loss and decline. To bear witness to their life, even as that life is changing or ending.

But here's what we don't talk about enough: an honor can also be a burden. Both things can be true at once. You can feel privileged to care for someone you love and also feel crushed by the weight of it. You can treasure the moments of connection and also long desperately for it to be over. You can love someone deeply and still feel relief when you imagine your life after their death.

All of it is normal. All of it is human. All of it deserves compassion — especially the parts that feel shameful to admit.

For This Month, and Beyond

So this November, during National Family Caregivers Month, maybe the most important thing we can offer caregivers isn't another reminder to practice self-care. Maybe it's permission to acknowledge how hard this is. Permission to grieve. Permission to feel the full range of what caregiving brings up — the love and the exhaustion, the meaning and the loss, the honor and the burden.

If you're a caregiver, please know: You don't have to do this gracefully. You don't have to find the silver lining. You don't have to be grateful for the opportunity or transformed by the experience. You're allowed to simply survive it, one day at a time, doing the best you can with what you have.

And if you know a caregiver, maybe skip the advice about self-care and instead offer something concrete. Bring a meal. Sit with their loved one for two hours. Send a text that says "I know this is really hard" and nothing more. Show up in the specific, practical ways that actually help.

Because caregiving isn't a problem to be solved with better self-care strategies. It's a profound act of love that deserves to be witnessed, supported, and honored for exactly what it is.

If you’re a caregiver in need of some extra support, we invite you to attend our monthly caregiver support group. SNBH’s Caregiver Support Group offers a welcoming and supportive space where you can share your experiences, connect with others facing similar challenges, and find encouragement.