07/06/2026
The painting hung in the hallway outside Room 214 long before I ever noticed it.
At first, it was just another piece of donated art in the rehabilitation center—something colorful meant to distract families from the smell of antiseptic and burnt coffee. But one Tuesday morning, after my third sleepless night in a row, I stopped walking long enough to really see it.
A Black woman in a business suit was upside down in the desert, her head buried in the sand while the rest of her body strained awkwardly toward the sky. Beside her stood a crooked sign:
NO PLAN.
NO MAP.
JUST PRAY.
I laughed harder than I meant to.
Because there I was.
Not literally upside down, of course. But caregiving has a way of turning your whole life backward until you don’t recognize yourself anymore.
Before my daughter was injured, I was organized. I had routines, savings goals, dinner parties, and uninterrupted sleep. I knew where my life was headed.
Then the military called.
The words “disabled veteran” changed everything.
My daughter came home alive, and for that I thanked God every single day. But she came home carrying injuries nobody could fully see at first. Some days it was the pain in her spine that stole her strength. Other days it was the nightmares. The silence. The anger. The exhaustion that wrapped around her like barbed wire.
War followed her home in pieces.
Caregiving is strange that way. One day you’re just a parent. The next day you’re a nurse, advocate, driver, counselor, insurance expert, medication manager, and emotional punching bag all before noon.
And because she was my daughter, I kept telling myself love should make it easier.
It didn’t.
Love made it heavier.
I learned how to help her transfer from bed without engaging her core, without hurting her pride. I learned which medications caused nausea and which sounds triggered panic attacks. I learned that independence becomes sacred when someone feels like their body has betrayed them.
I also learned how loneliness can sit in a crowded room.
Friends stopped calling after a while. People would say things like:
“She’s so strong.”
“You’re such a blessing.”
“At least she made it home.”
As if survival erased suffering.
Sometimes I’d hear her crying through the bedroom wall and pretend not to notice because dignity matters—even in pain. Other nights she’d call at 3 a.m. after another nightmare, and I’d sit and listen pretending we weren’t terrified.
Nobody talks enough about caregiver guilt.
Not the pretty kind people post online.
The real kind.
The guilt of being exhausted by someone you would die for.
The guilt of missing your old life.
The guilt of losing patience when you know they already lost so much more.
One afternoon, after spending six hours fighting with the VA, insurance representatives, and a pharmacy that misplaced her prescriptions, I sat in my car and screamed until my throat hurt.
Then I laughed.
Because suddenly I remembered the woman in the painting.
Flying by the seat of her pants.
Head buried in the sand.
Still somehow moving forward.
That’s caregiving.
You make impossible decisions while pretending you know what you’re doing.
You carry someone else’s pain until your own body starts aching too.
You celebrate victories nobody else notices:
a full night’s sleep,
a pain-free morning,
a smile,
a walk to the mailbox,
a day without tears.
And faith changes too.
Before caregiving, prayer sounded polished.
After caregiving, prayer became:
“Lord, help her hold on.”
“Please let this medication work.”
“Please help me not break today.”
Simple prayers.
Desert prayers.
The kind scratched onto wooden signs beside long empty roads.
Years later, I think about that painting.
The woman still looks ridiculous.
Still desperate.
Still determined.
But this time I see something different.
She wasn’t weak.
She was carrying the impossible weight of loving someone through survival.
And somehow—
despite fear,
despite exhaustion,
despite having no map—
she is still moving.
Just like millions of caregivers do every single day. You are not alone. Your mental health matters
Elizabeth Dole Foundation provides mental health support services to military and veteran caregivers through workshops, care groups and book clubs, providing connection, guidance and resources to help you thrive while caring for others. Explore the Foundation at hiddenheros.org
