How to Stay When You’re the One Holding Everyone Else Up

Article authored and generously contributed by Bob Shannon

No one tells you how fast your name changes when someone else needs you. You become “the one who knows the meds.” The one who handles the insurance call. The one who doesn’t cry. The one who figures it out. The one who stops being someone, quietly, in the background. And the strange thing is—people thank you for it. Like you volunteered. You didn’t. It just happened. And now, here you are, doing everything. Holding everything. Holding them. But you’re slipping out of the picture frame. Bit by bit.

Your Body’s Been Trying to Tell You

You’ve been feeling it. The shortness in your breath. The fog. That headache that starts behind your eyes and doesn’t go anywhere, no matter how much water you drink. You pretend you’re fine, because stopping feels worse. But this thing that’s building? It’s not harmless. It's not just being tired. It’s your body sending up a flare. You don’t have to fall apart to get permission to rest.

The Future Still Exists

This doesn’t have to be the end of you. Maybe not now. Maybe not soon. But your life didn’t stop just because this chapter started. It’s okay to imagine building something else later. Take a look at this if the thought of going back to school has ever tapped you on the shoulder — quietly, when the house was quiet. Something flexible. Something that gives you a way to re-enter your own life. Even if you don’t act on it now, just knowing the door’s still there can shift something inside you.

You’re Allowed to Have a Few Minutes

People keep saying “make time for yourself,” like there’s some secret drawer of hours you just forgot to open. Let’s be real. You don’t need an hour. You need five minutes. Something no one else gets a piece of. No service. No caregiving. Just you, breathing. One cup of coffee. One stare out the window. One page of a book. It doesn’t fix everything. But it might give you enough air to keep going.

Don’t Wait for a Crisis to Start Moving

You think you don’t have time. You think there are bigger things to handle. But your body’s been sitting in emergency mode for too long. It needs an out. Nothing huge. Just move a little. Ten steps. Shake your hands. Stand in place and roll your shoulders. Anything that breaks the freeze. Your body needs to remember what it feels like to be yours.

Build One Thing That Doesn’t Break

The world you’re inside right now? It shifts every day. Appointments change. Moods swing. Energy vanishes. That’s why you need something still. A rhythm. Doesn’t need to be pretty. Doesn’t need to make sense to anyone else. Just make the bed in the morning. Always brush your teeth before you speak to anyone. Light the same candle every night. Routines can hold you when nothing else does.

Reset the Alarm in Your System

Sometimes your thoughts spiral so fast your body starts joining in. You sweat. You tense. You hold your breath without meaning to. You can stop the fall. Interrupt it with something small. Shake your legs. Breathe like it matters. Count the sounds you hear in the room. This isn’t mindfulness. It’s survival.

Name One Good Thing. Just One.

You're not trying to make this okay. You're not forcing silver linings. But if you don’t name what also exists — the good stuff, even the scraps — this whole thing eats you. The smell of toast. A funny meme. That five-second laugh that broke through someone’s fog. That counts. Write it down. Keep it close.

Say Something Before You Vanish

Being a caregiver makes you feel like you’re never alone and completely invisible at the same time. If no one’s checking in on you, say something. Text someone. Talk to another adult. Complain. Laugh. Don’t explain. Don’t let your voice go unused for too long. It starts to forget itself.

One Small Piece — Keep That for You

None of this is easy. You know that. What’s harder is how invisible it makes you. So pick one thing that stays yours. A ritual. A walk. A voice memo. A text thread. Something no one can take. Protect it. And when the day ends — when all the meds are lined up and everyone’s asleep — come back to that thing. Not because it fixes you. Because it helps you remember you’re still here.

Join the Compassionate Community Care to stay informed, get involved, and be part of a community dedicated to promoting life-affirming alternatives.