MOMENTS THAT FIND US
At my recent book signing, I had one of those encounters that stays with you. The kind that reminds you why this work matters, and how caregiving has a way of gently revealing itself in everyday moments.
While I was at my table, I noticed a man guiding his father through Barnes & Noble. They looked alike, the same wide grin and the same quiet focus. I could see the tenderness in the way he stayed half a step ahead of his father, just enough to be helpful but not directive. He gave my table a quick side glance, but they both looked like they were on a mission, so I didn’t intrude. Still, I felt something. I should have introduced myself.
A little while later, as I watched him help his father into the car, I sent a small prayer out into the universe: Let this book get into his hands if it’s something he needs.
Moments later, he came rushing back into the store, alone. He told me he had seen the book and felt he needed to pay attention to it. He shared that he had just lost his mother, and now he was caring for his father. He bought the book quickly and asked me to watch his father through the window while he checked out. We’ve since exchanged emails, thoughtful conversations about what it means when your life shifts overnight into caregiving.
Encounters like this remind me how universal caregiving is, how it sits quietly inside ordinary moments, waiting to be recognized.
And it brought to mind the three pieces of guidance I most often share with caregivers, simple ideas that shaped my own journey:
1. Your feelings aren’t wrong; they’re information.
Caregiving brings positive and negative feelings, often at the same time. I couldn’t summon them on command, and I couldn’t banish them. My job wasn’t to control my feelings; it was to notice them.
Often, the first feeling was a signal of something deeper. When I stopped fighting what I felt, I became more present, better able to recognize my mother’s needs, and more aware of my own behavior in response.
2. Self-judgment makes caregiving harder. Compassion makes it doable.
When I stopped judging my emotions, I was better able to keep them in check. I wasn’t as quick to snap or get irritated.
Preparation helped: understanding what my mother might need, what I might need, and who I wanted to be as a caregiver. That clarity prevented my emotions from taking the wheel.
I wasn’t perfect. There were moments I wished I had handled better. But I learned something important; if I were given another day, I would do better.
3. You can’t change the behavior caused by the illness.
The things that irritated me most about my mother’s behavior were often symptoms of the disease, not reflections of her character. There were moments when I glimpsed her former self, but the illness was stronger than either of us. Remembering that helped me respond with compassion instead of frustration. It didn’t erase the hard moments, but it gave them context and it softened my reactions.
That man and his father reminded me that caregivers are everywhere; in bookstores, parking lots, coffee lines, walking quietly beside the people they love. Sometimes they don’t even see themselves as caregivers yet. Sometimes they’re just beginning.
And sometimes, they are drawn back through a doorway because something inside them knows they need support
If you’re walking through a difficult season of caregiving, please know you don’t have to do it alone. You’re always welcome to email me — I would be honored to support you in whatever way I can. And if you’re looking for deeper guidance, you can find more encouragement and practical tools in my book, Caregiving Reimagined: A Practical and Spiritual Guide for Family Caregivers.
I’m here for you.
Hugs,
Claudia