A few years ago, I found myself in a situation I never anticipated: caring for two mothers—my own and my husband’s—while raising three young children under one roof. Both women were facing significant health challenges.
My mother, gravely ill, needed round-the-clock care and was set up in a hospital bed in our family room. My mother-in-law, also struggling with her health, moved in too.
That brought us to seven people in our home. You might imagine this meant we lived in a spacious, sprawling house. We did not. To make it work, we squeezed all three kids into a single bedroom. Every inch of space was spoken for. But honestly, even if we had more room, I don’t think there’s a house big enough to contain what was happening inside ours.
Caring for others isn’t just about space. It’s about time. Energy. Emotional bandwidth. It’s about answering the same question 15 times because someone’s memory is failing (but is adamant it’s not). It’s about figuring out how to give each of your children one-on-one attention when there’s literally nowhere to go for privacy. It’s about the mental load of managing medications and doctor appointments while still packing school lunches, signing field trip forms, and helping with homework.
I wanted to be there for both moms. I wanted to show up with love and compassion and do the right thing. And I did. We all did. But here’s the truth: when you’re the caregiver, especially to multiple generations, there is a toll. It’s slow and quiet at first, like a battery draining in the background. But eventually, you notice you’re running on fumes.
No one really talks about what it costs to be the glue. About how the very thing that holds everyone else together often comes undone in silence.
I don’t share this for sympathy. I share it because if you’re in that season—or you’ve been there—you’re not alone. And if you haven’t, but you know someone who is, maybe offer a hand, a meal, or just a listening ear. Sometimes the smallest gesture feels like someone opening a window in a stuffy room.
