by Janice Skinner
The scent of pine and cinnamon will fill my house by late November, the wreath will be on the front door, and the little battery operated lights will lay on the mantel. But for me, the holidays feel more like a full-time job than a festive pause.
I’m the primary caregiver for my Aunt Margaret, who turned eighty nine last spring and now lives with me in Ponte Vedra Beach. She used to read Ken Follett and bake apple pies; now she needs help with the medications, the afternoon nap schedule, and the gait belt when she stands.
When the holiday cards come, I’m the one stuffing, sealing, and mailing when I’m not checking the pharmacy website or scheduling physical-therapy visits. I try to keep smiling at the tree-lighting ceremony, but inside I’m already juggling my job, my social life, and the relentless caregiving rhythm. I heard one caregiver on NPR say, “Dear whatever doesn’t kill me, I’m strong enough now. Thanks.”
That one line hit me. It’s funny and raw, and it carries the weight of someone who knows the depth of the role.
The holidays make everything bigger, the expectation of “cheer,” the extra guests, the dinner planning, the extra errands. For me, it’s less about picking the perfect tree and more about how to carve out an hour of time for myself. The clutter of hospital bills and in home care schedules sits just beneath the wrapping paper and ribbons.
Caregiving is a demanding, and often socially isolating, necessity for many people.
I realized that while people are out at holiday parties, I’m at home changing bedlinens, wiping counters, reminding Aunt Margaret to take her pills. The isolation sneaks in, friends assume I’m fine, or unburdened; family drops in for a few minutes, then leave. The role doesn’t stop overnight.
For thirty minutes, I’m just her niece, not her caregiver. I remind myself that the holidays can also be small glimmers of fun if we sit by the fireplace, bake cookies from one of her recipes, listen to music, and the world feels gentle for a moment.
I’ve learned (and remind myself often) that asking for help isn’t failure. Caregiving is too hard and too isolating to do it on your own.”
This holiday season, I’m stepping into two roles, caregiver and celebrant. I’ll turn on the lights, serve the pie, welcome the guests but I’ll also step back, and say out loud the truth, “This is hard. It’s full of love, absolutely. But it’s also stressful and exhausting. And that’s okay.”
To every caregiver reading this, you’re doing something monumental. Amid the tinsel and the turkey, remember to care for yourself. Because you matter too.
