Finding Your Own Garden: Why Caregivers Must Also Tend to Themselves
When you’re a caregiver, your heart feels like it’s constantly split in two.
One half stays seated by your loved one’s side — monitoring, helping, loving.
The other half aches for a moment of peace, a breath of air that feels yours.
For me, that breath of air comes when I’m in my garden. My hands in the dirt, the sun on my face, sweat dripping down my face, watching tiny green life quietly unfurl itself. It doesn’t erase the caregiving journey I’m walking — it simply gives me a moment to breathe on my own.
And yet ... sometimes the guilt creeps in.
I’ll be watering a new bloom or trimming back the roses, and suddenly I feel this heavy wave:
Shouldn’t I be inside? Shouldn’t I be right next to my love, making sure he’s okay, showing him he’s not alone?
It’s a guilt that’s almost impossible to put into words — a sense that if I'm feeling joy, even a small spark of it, I'm somehow letting him down.
But here’s what I’m learning, and what I want to share with you if you're carrying that same heavy feeling:
Caregiving does not mean you stop being a human being.
It doesn’t mean you must chain yourself to your loved one’s side every second of the day.
It doesn’t mean you must deny yourself every moment of growth, peace, and renewal.
It doesn’t mean you aren't deeply loving, deeply present, deeply enough.
In fact, finding those small things — whether it’s gardening, reading a chapter of a book, taking a walk, crafting, painting, breathing outside for five minutes — is a form of honoring both your journey and theirs.
Because you can’t pour from an empty cup.
You can’t give the best of your heart if you’ve starved it from the things that fill it.
Finding things for yourself doesn’t take you away from your loved one.
It strengthens the “you” that they already treasure so much.
This year, my garden is giving me so many small bursts of joy. I’m trying three varieties of tomatoes on a vertical string trellis (fingers crossed it’ll work!), and the sunflowers seem to be loving the — shall we call it warm? — Texas weather.
I’m learning the fine art of choosing the right plants that can survive a very warm deck (my beautiful Magnolia tin pots may not have been the best choice after all), while also battling the clouds of mosquitoes that hover, gather, and seem to have me on their personal dinner menu.
One of my happiest surprises has been rediscovering thunbergia, a beautiful climber I fell in love with back when I lived in Chicago. It feels like finding a little piece of my old life and weaving it into this new chapter.
"Gardening is the purest therapy — where every seed is a small act of hope, and every bloom is a quiet celebration of life."
And the best part? This gardening adventure isn't just mine - it’s something I get to share with my grandson, Patrick, just as I did with my older grandson, Henry, in Chicago.
Patrick helped fill the garden bins, made a gallant attempt at watering (not only the garden, but himself, the fence, and even the dog, who received a generous sprinkling whether he wanted it or not).
Moments like those remind me that joy grows, too — sometimes in the plants, but more often in the memories we’re planting together.
I’ll admit, I got very spoiled growing several vegetables over the last few years. (I'm not sure if my old neighbors are missing the endless squash, cucumbers, and tomatoes — or just relieved they no longer have me knocking at their door begging them to take some of the bounty of my efforts!)
And still, every time a new bloom opens or a tiny green tomato appears, I’m reminded:
I’m not stepping away from caregiving.
I’m stepping into life, so I can bring more light back with me.
🌿
If you’re a caregiver, I’d love to hear — what’s your garden?
What tiny thing brings you back to yourself, even for just a few minutes?
You deserve that. You always have. 🌸