CAREGIVER LOG.
Day 1. Enter house. Smell of old coffee and lavender soap. She says she doesn’t need help. Says she can manage.
Watch her try to lift herself off the toilet. See her arms tremble like branches wobbling in the wind. Help her stand. Pants up. Dignity intact. She doesn’t thank me. Doesn’t have to.
I don’t mind.
I used to think I’d be somewhere else by now. Had plans once. College degree half-finished. Marriage that cracked at the foundation. Parents who used to brag about me. Now it’s bills unpaid, rent due, dinner from a gas station on the way home at midnight. Didn’t imagine my life like this.
The world outside is still rotting.
People walking past each other, eyes down, hearts closed. Politicians lying with bright smiles. News blaring murder, greed, disaster, over and over until it all blurs into nothing. I used to think I’d fix something. Change something. Be something.
But life has teeth. It chews you down to bone and leaves you wondering if anything you do matters.
Day 3. She tries to shower alone. Nearly falls. I catch her. Feel her bird-boned fragility in my grip. She looks at me with eyes like wet ash. I see it then – pride breaking. Fear behind it.
I know that look.
It’s the same one I carry when I stare at the ceiling in the dark, wondering if this is all there is. Wondering if I’m just waiting out the clock like everyone else.
Day 5. She lets me wash her hair. Warm water runs down lined cheeks. Eyes close. Shoulders sink. She says, “Feels so nice.” Her voice is small. Almost forgotten.
And in that moment… something lifts.
Because here, in this small quiet world, what I do matters. I realize I’m not useless. I’m not a mistake. Every day I help her stand. Help her eat. Help her stay clean, warm, human. It isn’t glamorous. Just quiet work that keeps her alive.
Every day, I see the difference.
Every day, I see her live with a little less fear. And for the first time in a long time, I think – maybe this is why I’m here. Maybe saving her saves me too.
There’s a kind of peace in it. Knowing someone notices if you don’t show up. Knowing there’s a team that has your back when the shift gets heavy. Knowing there’s gas in the tank this week, groceries in the fridge, rent covered on payday. Knowing your name is said with respect, not pity. Knowing you matter – not because of what you planned to be, but because of what you do, every single day.
The world is still broken. But here, in this house, for these few hours… it feels a little less hopeless.
Help someone live. Learn that your life still matters – because you make theirs possible.