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When Caregiving Shrinks Your World, Find a Perch
Caregivers don’t just need plans to survive the chaos; we need moments that lift us above it
Tara Anand
I write short sentences.
Not because I’m a minimalist. It’s because I don’t have the margin for long ones.
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Most days, my attention is split into fragments. I’ve been a caregiver for more than four decades. My wife’s medical journey includes 98 surgeries — and life under that kind of pressure reshapes how you experience time.
It comes in waves.
Some days, the load feels lighter. But never light.
Most days, I spin and turn so often, I can practically hear Ross Geller from Friends yelling frantically: “Pivot! Pivot! Pivot!”
When you live like that, even thinking about a five-year plan, a five-week plan — heck, even a five-day plan — feels like trying to paint a mural on a merry-go-round.
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I recently did an interview with an AARP writer while folding towels, cleaning the kitchen and emptying the dishwasher.
I tried to be quiet — you’ll have to ask him if I was — but honestly, that’s just my life.
“Blessed are the flexible,” I remind myself, “for they shall not be bent out of shape.”
Caregiving compresses your world. The micro — the appointments, the medication refills, the crisis du moment — demands all your attention.
And when the micro dominates, the macro disappears.
You forget who you are, what you care about and where this road is even supposed to lead.
It’s not just exhausting. It’s blinding.
Caregiving can shrink your world to a to-do list that never ends and a “to-be” list that seems a distant memory.
I’ve actually had to say to my wife while finishing a thought for an article or book, “Honey, I’ll be with you in just a moment, but I need my whole brain right now.”
She understands. It’s the life we’ve built together in an impossible situation.
Others looking in from the outside often chime in — usually with good intentions.
“Have you tried a spa day?”
Sure. Should I take this perennial stack of medical bills with me?
“Wouldn’t you love to go on a cruise?”
You mean willingly trap myself on a floating buffet with 2,000 needy, demanding strangers expecting room service and constant attention?
If I ever feel the urge to cruise again, I’ll throw on a Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops, and head to the nearest Golden Corral.
Same crowd. Better parking. And I can leave when I want.
I love horses — but I’m landlocked these days. Physically, emotionally and logistically.
So what do I do?
I “caregiver-fy” my life.
I adapted this term from a quirky show my wife loves called My Cat From Hell, hosted by Jackson Galaxy.
Over time, I’ve come to respect Jackson not just as a cat behaviorist but as someone who understands human behavior under pressure.
When cats are overwhelmed by activity — kids, dogs, household chaos — Jackson doesn’t just tell people to calm things down. He helps them “catify” the space, organizing the environment to provide better structure for the cat.
Sometimes, he has the owners build a cat superhighway: shelves and ledges that allow the cat to traverse the house above the fray.
Not to avoid reality. But to get a better view of it.
To move more freely. To breathe.
That image stuck with me.
Maybe caregivers need our own superhighways — not an escape, but a way to rise above the moment for just long enough to remember who we are.
You don’t need a week away. You need a perch.
Something that gives you altitude — mental, emotional or spiritual.
- A cup of coffee in the quiet of the morning
- A piano (one of my favorites)
- The ability to watch a television show uninterrupted
- A short (or long) walk
- A movie (which sometimes takes some real planning)
- Horseback riding (something I normally do when the weather’s nice in Montana, but it’s impossible right now)
- A friend who checks in without needing anything from you
- One room where no caregiving decisions get made
These moments don’t fix the storm. But they remind you that the storm isn’t all there is.
Caregivers spend so much time roller-skating from task to task that we forget what it feels like to stand still — let alone live.
And if we don’t take time for stillness, we’ll have to make time for illness.
Caregiving rarely gives us long, open highways. It’s mostly stop-and-go.
But if we can create just one perch —
If we can give ourselves any space above the fray —
We’ll remember.
We’re not just surviving.
We are still moving.
The big picture doesn’t disappear, but we usually need a bit of help to remind us that it’s there.
We don’t just function better when we can see it.
We live.
When it comes to the perch that allows us to see the bigger picture, don’t just do something — sit there (if only for a few minutes).
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