I Didn’t Know I Was Burning Out Until It Was Too Late

I never planned to become a caregiver.
But when someone you love needs you, you just step in. No questions. No instructions. No roadmap.

At first, it felt like love in action. I could do hard things. I wanted to help. But over time, the days started blending together. The needs got heavier. The seizures more frequent. The mental fog, deeper. The emotional outbursts, unpredictable.

And I slowly disappeared inside the routine.

I didn’t realize how far I’d gone until one day I found myself hiding in the bathroom—not because I needed privacy, but because I couldn’t hold the tears back anymore. I cried quietly, knees to chest, while the kettle whistled and my person—my family—called out for help again.

That’s when it hit me: I wasn’t just tired. I was burned out.

The kind of burnout that makes your bones feel heavy. The kind where even thinking about self-care feels laughable. The kind where guilt becomes your constant companion—guilt for being exhausted, for snapping, for needing space, for wanting to run. And worst of all, guilt for admitting that sometimes... this is just too much.

I’ve wrestled with that guilt for a long time. I still do.

Because when you love someone with a severe disability—when their safety and survival depends on your presence—it feels wrong to want anything for yourself. But here’s what I’ve come to understand:

You can love someone deeply and still feel overwhelmed.
You can be grateful and still be exhausted.
You can be devoted and still need a break.

And that doesn’t make you a bad person. It makes you human.

I’m not writing this because I have answers. I don’t.
I’m still in it. Still figuring out how to take care of both of us.
Still battling the voice in my head that says “you should be stronger than this.”

But if you’re reading this and nodding through tears… just know you’re not alone.

There are so many of us out here—quietly holding it all together, quietly breaking down.
And maybe the first step toward healing is just saying it out loud:

This is hard.
I’m tired.
And I matter too.

That’s all. No silver linings. Just truth. And maybe, in that truth, a little relief.