My mom is 92 and, remarkably, still pretty independent.

She lives in her own home. She reads. She cooks. She putters. She watches her shows. She still insists she’s “fine.” And in many ways, she is.

But aging has a way of turning even “fine” into a team sport.

There are three of us sisters. We all love our mom fiercely. We all care deeply. We all show up — just in very different ways.

One sister lives a mile away. She’s the one who gets the phone call when the TV won’t work. The call when the internet is acting up. The “I feel a little dizzy” moments. The winter rides to doctor’s appointments when the roads are icy.

She carries the day-to-day rhythm of Mom’s life in a way the rest of us simply can’t.

My other sister and I live 3,000 miles away. We call mom many times a week, sometimes more. We coordinate, check in, and visit a few times a year to give my sister a break.

But let’s be honest — FaceTime is not the same as fixing the cable box. And loving from afar isn’t the same as living it.

When we visit, we say, “Go take a break. We’ve got this.” But she rarely does. She still comes over. Still helps. Still hovers. And we love her for that.

When you’ve been the primary caregiver for years — first for my dad through Parkinson’s and now for Mom — stepping away doesn’t feel restful. It feels anxious.

I’ve started to recognize something in her that I see in so many caregivers: exhaustion wrapped in hyper-vigilance. Small issues can feel big. A forgotten pill, an unsteady step, a less-than-perfect food choice — everything carries urgency. She reacts at a ten, even when it might be a five.

I understand it. It comes from love. But underneath it, I also see fear. Anticipatory grief.

When you’ve already walked one parent through a long decline, you know what might be coming. And sometimes that knowledge steals your peace before anything has even changed.

Add years of hands-on care, and you don’t just get tired — you get burned out.

Caregiver burnout doesn’t always look like collapse. Sometimes it looks like control. Or irritability. Or trying to manage every detail perfectly.

It can sound like, “This stress is going to kill me before Mom.” That’s not drama. That’s depletion.

Meanwhile, I find myself thinking: She’s 92. If she wants potato chips sometimes, maybe we let her have the potato chips. At some point, quality of life has to matter as much as longevity.

Grace matters too.

This experience has reminded me that caregiving isn’t just about the person receiving care. It’s about the people giving it.

The one down the street. The one across the country. The one doing the driving. The one making the calls. The one lying awake at night worrying.

Everyone carries a piece of the weight — but not all pieces weigh the same.

If there’s a lesson in our story, it’s this: caregivers need care too.

Real breaks, not just offers. Permission to step back. Shared responsibility. Support. Sometimes even counseling. Because love shouldn’t cost you your own health.

That’s exactly why Senior Concerns created Caregiver Recognition Day — a free morning dedicated to honoring family caregivers and giving them something rare: time to breathe, to connect, to feel seen. https://www.seniorconcerns.org/caregiver-recognition-day/

If you are caring for someone — a spouse, a parent, a partner, a sibling — I hope you will join us. No one should carry this quiet weight alone.

I’m endlessly grateful for my New Hampshire sister. Truly. We would not be able to care for Mom as well as we do without her steady presence and support.

But I’m also learning to say this more often — to her and to other caregivers I meet:

You don’t have to hold it all.

We’re in this together.