It took me years to understand what caregiving was taking from us.

When I was younger, I didn’t have language for it. I only saw what was happening on the surface.

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The doing, the managing, the surviving. I didn’t yet understand that caregiving, especially family caregiving doesn’t just ask for time or effort.

It asks for identity, energy and leads to caregiver burnout long before anyone notices.

I’ve always thought of caregivers as superheroes. It’s my story, my perspective!

This is not because they’re fearless and truthfully most of the time they’re scared shitless.

They give all of themselves to protect and care for someone else. To protective their family and loved ones.

That’s what superheroes do: they put their own needs aside to hold someone else up when they can’t do it alone.

This is a story about my parents and my family.

Before the Villain: Who They Were

Before Multiple Sclerosis entered our lives, my Mom was everything and she still is.

I remember the first day she dropped me off at school. I cried and begged her not to leave. She knelt down and told me she didn’t want to leave either but it was time. What I didn’t know until later was that she cried too. In the hallway. And again when she walked back to the car.

We had a giant lilac bush in the backyard. Every spring, my mom and I waited for it to bloom. She’d grab the gardening shears and a basket, and we’d walk out together, cutting branches and filling vases throughout the house. The smell was pure happiness. It softened everything. It made our family of five smile.

She was energetic. Fun. Always moving.

She ran us kids everywhere, hosted constantly, kept the house together, and somehow did it all with humor and warmth. She was nurturing in a way that made you feel safe just being near her.

She was beautiful slender, striking blue eyes, brown hair worn short, the clearest skin. But it was her presence that stayed with you. Sharp. Sarcastic. Funny. Loving. She didn’t put up with shit, and she was always there.

My Dad was the man.

He ran his own business and still coached all three of our sports teams. He ran community basketball leagues, had bowling nights, and knew everyone.

He coached my traveling basketball team. I’ll never forget one game it was his birthday. We were down by one point with five seconds left. Full-court press style! A teammate stole the ball and passed it to me for a layup at the buzzer. We won.

My Dad ran his big belly onto the court, picked me up, and squeezed me so tight I couldn’t breathe. He wouldn’t let go. He was so proud.

He taught me how to cook by pulling everything out of the fridge and somehow turning it into a real meal and this is something I still do today.

He was handsome. Blue eyes. A belly. Less hair than most. Sometimes shaved, sometimes scruffy. He worked hard, helped anyone who needed it, stood firmly in what he believed. Loving. Generous. Funny. And yes he had a temper when pushed too far. Shit, we all do!

Together, my parents were a force.

Holidays mattered. Birthdays were celebrated. Community functions were fun. Block parties brought everyone together. Our home was stable, loving, and full. They made sure we had what we needed to grow up happy and carefree.

When the Villain Arrived

At just 35, my Mom began to deteriorate — physically, emotionally, and soulfully.

We were young when my mom became ill and forced to mature sooner than we should have.

At first, it didn’t make sense. We couldn’t go places we used to go. It wasn’t her fault. It was the villain, an unknown force that entered her body without invitation, bringing shame and embarrassment into her mind.

I watched my vibrant, energizer-bunny Mom slowly disappear.

Her energy drained, vision changed, mobility became limited and the sense of who she had been began slipping away.

Eventually, a hospital bed had to be placed on the first floor because the stairs were too much.

I watched her lose hope even as she tried to hide it. She wore a smile I know was hard to carry. I heard her cry at night, and I never blamed her. Not once.

I cried too. I think we all did, quietly.

What It Took from My Father

That same summer, my dad won a trip to England through his insurance business. He was excited to take us.

I was convinced I’d meet the Queen. I even wrote her a letter. A lady-in-waiting wrote back formal and polite and explaining the Queen wouldn’t be around if we came. Damn her and her busy schedule!

We never went.

My mom was too sick. Doctors were still running tests. No one could explain what was happening, only that it was getting worse.

I remember my dad’s face when he told us the trip was canceled. Something heavier than disappointment. The moment he realized life was no longer divided into work, family, and rest, it was collapsing into caregiving.

Caregiver.

We were three kids under thirteen, two years apart. He became Driving Miss Daisy.

Sports schedules.

Homework.

Practices and games.

Grocery shopping and meals.

Laundry and cleaning.

Doctor appointments and hospital visits.

Bills.

And a business that still had to run so everything else could stay afloat.

Everything my Mom had done without effort was now his and none of it paused because he was exhausted.

He parented three kids while learning how to care for a wife who was suddenly dependent on him. Helping her move. Helping her rest. Watching her struggle with a body that no longer cooperated.

And underneath it all, he was trying to understand a disease with no timeline and no clear plan.

Caregiving doesn’t come with instructions. It comes with fear and guesswork.

I watched my dad stretch himself thinner than I thought possible.

He absorbed stress so we wouldn’t have to.

And sometimes it broke through as exhaustion, frustration, and silence.

Caregiving didn’t change who he was.

It revealed how much one person can carry.

If you’ve ever loved someone through illness, you already know this weight even if you’ve never called yourself a caregiver.

What It Took from My Mother

Caregiving doesn’t only take from the person giving care.

It takes from the person receiving it too.

I watched my mom lose pieces of herself. Independence disappears slowly one ability replaced by help, one private moment replaced by necessity.

She didn’t just lose mobility. She experienced the emotional toll of caregiving from the other side.

She lost autonomy.

Confidence.

Independence.

The freedom to move through the world without calculation.

There is grief in that few people see. The grief of losing a version of yourself you worked your whole life to love and live.

I watched her stay strong for us. Smile while depleted. Remain present while mourning who she used to be.

Caregiving doesn’t erase pride. It tests it.

What Caregiving Did to Our Family

Caregiving brought us closer. We became a team.

It also changed everything.

It introduced tension, fear, and weight into ordinary moments.

It forced three kids to grow up faster than they wanted.

Arguments that weren’t really arguments.

Silences that said too much.

Moments when everyone was tired and no one knew how to fix it and did not know how to communicate it.

I saw my parents defeated and not because they were weak, but because they were human and overwhelmed by something they never chose.

And still, they stayed.

I once asked my dad why he stayed when many wouldn’t.

He said, “Because I promised your mom when I married her till death do us part.”

Till death do us part! Wow! How can I ever find a man like my Dad?

On top of it all he is still here today for my Mom.

Why They Are Superheroes (my perspective)

Caregivers are superheroes because they keep showing up, even when strength feels out of reach.

They stay when leaving would be easier. Absorb pain so others don’t have to. Give without knowing when relief will come.

My Mom is a superhero because she continues to fight to be here. Living inside long-term illness, relearning herself inside limitations she never chose, still loving us through it all.

After years of falls, hospitalizations, and fear, we faced another breaking point The fucking hardest decision ever for my Dad and us all. That was finding a care facility. We toured over eighty. None felt right. We prayed for safety, for dignity, for people who would treat her like family.

Caregiving doesn’t look heroic while you’re living it, but it looks like love doing its best under impossible conditions.

That kind of courage is invisible but relentless.

My Dad is a superhero because he carried an entire family as a caregiver, provider, and parent all at once. He showed up every day knowing the cost, and paid it anyway.

Caregiving asks for everything.

Time. Energy. Identity. Self.

When people talk about heroes, they usually picture someone being celebrated.

I picture my dad.

A man with too much on his shoulders, who kept going, who honored his vows when no one would have blamed him for leaving.

A man who gave my siblings and me the chance to still feel safe while his own world was changing.

That kind of love changes people. It changed me and it changed all of us.

If you are a caregiver or someone being cared for, you are not invisible.

You are part of a love story most people never fully see. Hell some wouldn’t even consider it one, but it is.

And if you are lucky enough to know someone who carried others through their hardest season, tell them now.

Some superheroes never ask for recognition.

They just spend a lifetime earning it.