To the caregivers, the ones barely holding it all together, the ones who have had to shoulder burdens they never asked for and never get thanked for—this is for you.
They call us the "sandwich generation," as if we’re part of some cute little lunchtime metaphor. Let me tell you, stay away from this sandwich – it is rotten. The bread is moldy, the meat is spoiled, and it’s been left out on the counter for days. There is nothing digestible about this life, nothing convenient about being wedged between raising your own children, keeping your career afloat, and suddenly becoming responsible for the people who once wiped your butt. It’s not a sandwich, it’s a relentless grind that strips you down to the bone and serves you up on a platter of exhaustion.
I know, because I lived it.
In 2016, my father—my strong, dependable father—fell ill with a tumor in his pituitary gland. He had been my mother’s primary caregiver, managing her rare early dementia (posterior cortical atrophy) with quiet determination. But in one quick fall, our entire world flipped upside down. Mom suddenly needed 24-hour care and supervision, and now Dad needed a partner in his fight. And that partner? That was me.
At the time, I was a full-time HR executive, crisscrossing the lower 48, trying to balance my career, my three kids (then 13, 10, and 5), and a marriage that barely registered under the weight of everything else. My days became a blur of flights, conference calls, parent teacher conferences, medication schedules, and desperate late-night Google searches about assisted living, dementia care, and how to navigate a system designed to break you.
And oh, the choices I got to make! Like deciding whether to miss my kid’s concert or leave my mother confused and alone for the night. Or packing up a long-awaited vacation two days early because I had to say goodbye to my father. (And yes, we did.) Nothing says "rest and recharge" like crying in a car on a six-hour drive back from the Outer Banks.
I emptied out my childhood home, sifting through a lifetime of memories while making impossible decisions about what stayed and what had to go. I sold it, closing a chapter I wasn’t ready to end. I moved my parents into assisted living, trying to convince myself it was the best choice, even as guilt clawed at my chest. I watched my father bounce in and out of rehab for four months before he passed away in August 2017.
And then it got worse.
Mom’s decline hit fast and brutal. She was moved into the memory care unit, where one catastrophic episode landed her in a geriatric psychiatric facility for months. Every visit was another gut punch, watching her slip further away. Finally, I placed her in her last home—a residential care facility outside Baltimore. She was bedridden. She was losing her mind. She was dying in slow motion, and there was nothing I could do except show up, hold her hand, and carry the weight of everything alone until she passed in January of 2020.
And then there were the intimate, grueling tasks—the ones no one talks about. Bathing the mother who once bathed me, lifting my father onto a toilet, cleaning them up, dressing them when they could no longer dress themselves. Navigating hospital rounds and specialist visits, memorizing medication lists, advocating when doctors wouldn’t listen.
Getting my father in and out of a wheelchair, feeling his weight shift and strain against my own exhaustion. Coaching my mother—who was losing her sight—to trust me, to believe me when I told her she could take three steps down oc my patio and she wouldn’t fall into an abyss.
So, to the caregivers who are in the thick of it, who are drowning under the weight of responsibilities you never anticipated - I see you. You are not just ‘taking care’ of things. You are managing fiery chaos. You are absorbing grief before it even fully arrives. You are giving away pieces of yourself to keep others whole.
You are not selfish for resenting it. You are not weak for breaking down in the car before walking into another facility, another meeting, another obligation. You are not failing because you don’t have anything left to give to your marriage, your kids, your job.
I know what it’s like to watch your parents disappear before your eyes, to be the one making every impossible decision, to carry the load while the rest of the world just… keeps going.
I know what it’s like to feel invisible in your sucering, to feel like there’s no space to scream, no space to just be.
So let me say this: You matter too. Your exhaustion is real. Your grief is real. And you are not alone.
This is not a love letter to the “sandwich generation” because that label doesn’t fit the reality of what we endure. This is a love letter to the caregivers. To the warriors. To the people who carry everyone else, even when their own legs are about to give out.
I see you. I honor you. I love you. And if no one has said it today - you’re doing a fucking phenomenal job.