Somewhere Between the Grief and the Responsibilities, I Disappeared

Somewhere between taking care of everyone else and trying to hold everything together, I lost myself. Again.

I've been doing a lot of thinking lately. About this past year and a half, everything that's happened, the people I've lost, the relationships that have changed, and how I've allowed myself to get to this point.

And I've come to a realization that I'm not particularly proud of.

I've lost myself. Again.

Not all at once. There wasn't one defining moment when I woke up and decided that my needs no longer mattered. It happened gradually. One responsibility at a time. One difficult situation after another. One more thing that needed my attention, one more person who needed something from me, one more reason to put myself on the back burner.

And before I knew it, I was right back where I'd promised myself I wouldn't be.

At the bottom of my own priority list.

It's Been a Lot. More Than I've Allowed Myself to Acknowledge.

Last year I lost my uncle to cancer. Calling him my uncle doesn't adequately describe our relationship. He was like a brother to me. Someone who had been part of my life for as long as I could remember. Someone I loved deeply.

That loss was followed by more cancer diagnoses within my family.

My husband went through cancer treatment last year, finishing in December.

This year, my mother was diagnosed with stage III breast cancer. My aunt is also battling cancer.

Four people I love have been affected by cancer in roughly a year and a half. One of them gone.

I don't think I've fully processed what that means emotionally. At some point, the next diagnosis or difficult conversation almost becomes another thing to manage. You ask questions, learn about treatments, attend appointments, and focus on what needs to happen next. But just because you learn how to function through difficult circumstances doesn't mean those circumstances aren't affecting you.

In June, my mother moved into our home. In addition to cancer, she has Parkinson's disease, which has significantly affected her mobility and independence.

I knew becoming a caregiver would come with additional responsibilities. What I didn't fully anticipate was just how mentally, emotionally, and physically draining it would be. I think part of me assumed it would be similar to raising children. But there's a significant difference between caring for children as they grow and become more independent and caring for a parent whose health and independence are declining. There's also the emotional weight of watching someone you love struggle with things they once did without a second thought. And unlike raising children, where you're generally working toward greater independence, caregiving often means adjusting to the reality that more help may be needed over time. I love my mother. But loving someone doesn't make caregiving easy, and being willing to help doesn't mean I have unlimited physical or emotional capacity. That's something I've had to remind myself of repeatedly.

And then, on July 28, I lost Daisy.

My Babes Girl. And of all the difficult things I've faced over the past year and a half, losing her has been the one that has nearly broken me.

I don't even know how to adequately put that loss into words.

She wasn't just my dog. She was my best friend, my companion, and such an important part of my everyday life. She was comfort and unconditional love wrapped up in a little beagle.

And I miss her terribly.

The hardest part to admit is that I haven't really allowed myself to grieve her.

For months, I couldn't look at her pictures. Even thinking about her was too painful. I've only recently started allowing myself to remember her in small doses.

Because I'm afraid that if I let myself feel the full weight of losing her, I won't be able to hold it together.

And right now, I feel like I have to hold it together.

How sad is that? To lose someone you love so deeply and feel as though you don't have the time or emotional capacity to grieve them.

But that's where I've been.

Some Losses Don't Come With a Funeral

This year also marks five years of estrangement from my daughter and grandson.

Five years.

It's difficult to wrap my head around that number.

My daughter wasn't just my daughter. She was my best friend. She brought joy, laughter, and fun into my life, and I miss not only our relationship as mother and daughter, but our friendship.

My grandson spent so much of his early life with me. He was part of my everyday world. And now, five years have passed without that relationship.

Estrangement is a different kind of grief. The people you're grieving are still alive. They're growing, changing, celebrating birthdays, and living their lives. You're simply no longer part of those moments.

There's no clear ending. No certainty about what the future holds. And sometimes, no opportunity to resolve the things that brought you to that point. And five years is a long time to carry that kind of hurt.

Meanwhile, Life and Work Kept Moving

Throughout all of this, I've continued working in a role I love so much, but it's also been incredibly demanding.

This past year has involved major changes, training initiatives, staffing transitions, new responsibilities, and more hours than I'd like to count.

I've spent countless hours creating educational materials, developing training programs, reviewing work, retraining, providing feedback, and helping others learn and succeed.

I take pride in what I do. I care about doing things correctly and helping people succeed in their roles.

But somewhere along the way, that commitment began coming at a cost.

There were long days, competing priorities, and difficult conversations. But what took the greatest toll on me, both mentally and physically, was feeling as though I was constantly being picked apart and criticized. My work, my intentions, my judgment, and even my character seemed to be under constant scrutiny.

And I want to be clear: this wasn't coming from everyone. The team I work with is an amazing group of people, and I'm grateful for them! But the criticism has consistently come from the same handful of individuals since I stepped into this role, and quite frankly, I've reached my limit.

There's a difference between constructive feedback and feeling like nothing you do is ever good enough. And after a while, that kind of criticism wears you down.

I've also had to come to terms with the disappointment of realizing that someone I considered a friend wasn't necessarily treating me like one.

That hurts differently.

Especially when you've known someone for years and believed there was mutual respect and trust.

And that brings me to something else I've had to confront.

When People You Trust Make You Question Yourself

One of the more difficult things I've had to confront this year is how much I've allowed other people's opinions to affect how I feel about myself.

And unfortunately, some of those experiences involved people I trusted, respected, or considered friends.

I learned that someone I'd considered a friend for many years had been speaking negatively about me. My judgment was being questioned, my intentions were being criticized, and I was being described as controlling.

I can handle professional disagreements. I don't expect everyone to agree with me, and I'm certainly not above being corrected when I'm wrong. I welcome those conversations.

But there's a difference between disagreeing with someone and dismissing them.

And when that behavior comes from someone you trusted, it becomes personal.

During conversations about health and nutrition, another friend essentially treated me as though I was stupid, didn't know what I was talking about, and had no credibility.

Never mind that I have two certifications related to health, nutrition, and life coaching. Never mind the years I've spent studying, researching, learning, and applying that knowledge. Never mind that I've put considerable effort into understanding my own health and the changes my body has experienced as I've gotten older. And never mind that the plan I put together for myself based on my knowledge was the same plan my physician later gave me.

None of that seemed to matter.

My knowledge was dismissed. My experience was dismissed. My efforts were criticized.

And it wasn't limited to one conversation. There were comments about what I ate, how I approached nutrition, and decisions I was making for my own health. What bothers me most isn't that someone disagreed with me. It's that I allowed those opinions to affect me as deeply as they did. 

I found myself questioning things I knew were true, defending decisions I shouldn't have had to defend, and feeling embarrassed about something as basic as what I was eating. At one point, I found myself slipping back into old behaviors, such as hiding food and avoiding eating in front of other people.

That realization was especially upsetting because I've worked hard to develop a healthier relationship with food and my body.

And there I was, allowing someone else's criticism to influence that relationship again.

When I look at these experiences together, I see a pattern.

Different people. Different relationships. Different areas of my life.

But the impact was remarkably similar.

I allowed someone else's opinion to make me question my intelligence, knowledge, experience, and worth.

And I kept trying to explain myself.

To justify myself.

To make them understand.

But why?

Why do I feel compelled to prove myself to people who seem more interested in criticizing me than understanding me?

I'm 56 years old. I've raised a family, built a career, continued my education, earned certifications, navigated difficult circumstances, and learned a great deal through both education and experience.

I don't know everything. I never will. And I'm perfectly willing to learn from someone who knows more than I do.

But being open to learning doesn't mean I have to accept being belittled.

Having a different opinion doesn't automatically make someone else more knowledgeable.

And having a relationship with someone doesn't give them permission to make me feel small.

I've learned that I don't have to continually explain or defend myself to people who have already made up their minds about me. I've gotten better at establishing boundaries around those interactions, even if their words and actions still affect me more than I'd like.

The Strange Contradiction of Accomplishing So Much While Feeling So Lost

Here's something else I've been thinking about.

Despite everything that's happened, I've accomplished some pretty significant things.

I earned my CRCR certification. I've participated in a 10-month leadership development program. I've developed and improved education and training processes at work from the ground up.

And I'm preparing to graduate with my master's degree in Health Information Management.

My master's degree!

That's something I've worked incredibly hard for, and I'm proud of it.

Professionally, I've received recognition for exceeding expectations.

On paper, this has been a successful year.

But the reality behind those accomplishments looks a little different.

I've been exhausted. Overwhelmed. Irritable. Mentally drained.

My sleep hasn't been great. I've had headaches, body aches, and difficulty concentrating. There are days when even small things feel like too much.

Even my blood pressure has been elevated, which concerns me. I know prolonged stress can contribute to higher blood pressure, and while I can't say for certain that's the cause, it's another indication that I need to start taking my physical health just as seriously as my emotional well-being.

I've seriously questioned whether I need to take time away from work because I feel so burned out.

And the irony?

When I thought about taking medical leave, one of my first concerns was that I'd end up spending that time taking care of my mother's needs rather than recovering myself.

My other concern? Work.

We have another group of new hires coming on, and I'm responsible for their training through March. I worry that taking time off would mean retraining them when I return or placing an additional workload on coworkers who are already overwhelmed.

Think about that.

I'm considering taking time away from work because I'm struggling physically and emotionally, yet my first thoughts aren't about what I need to recover. They're about how my absence might affect everyone else, both at home and at work.

And while those concerns are understandable, I have to ask myself why I continue to place everyone else's needs ahead of my own, even when my health is telling me something needs to change.

I Was Supposed to Be Working on Me

At the beginning of 2026, I chose Consistency as my word of the year.

My intention wasn't to become perfect. It was to become more intentional.

I wanted to rebuild trust with myself. To establish healthier habits. To be consistent with my physical health, my spiritual life, my writing, my finances, and the commitments I made to myself.

I wanted to stop starting over. I wanted to stop putting myself last.

And yet, here I am in October, realizing that many of those things have once again taken a back seat. I've neglected exercise. I've neglected rest. I've neglected my writing and the things I wanted to accomplish for myself. I've been so focused on getting through each day and managing whatever needed my attention that I stopped paying attention to what I needed.

And that frustrates me.

Not because I believe I should have handled everything perfectly. Some of what happened this year was completely outside my control. People get sick. People die. Relationships change. Work becomes demanding. Life happens. I couldn't have prevented those things.

But I do have to acknowledge the choices I've made in response to them.

I've allowed other people's needs to take priority over my own, even when it wasn't necessary.

I've continued pushing myself when I needed to rest.

And I've convinced myself once again that I'll get back to taking care of myself when things settle down.

Except things never really settle down, do they?

There's always another responsibility. Another problem. Another deadline. Another person who needs something.

If I continue waiting for life to become less demanding before I start prioritizing myself, I may be waiting forever.

One area where I have made progress is setting boundaries. I've become much more intentional about what I'm willing to take on, what I allow from others, and when I need to say no. I've established boundaries both at work and at home, and I've followed through with them.

And I'm proud of that.

But I've also realized that setting boundaries is only one part of taking care of myself. I can be better at saying no and still neglect my physical health, my emotional well-being, and the commitments I've made to myself.

I Have a Plan. And This Time, I'm Making Myself Part of It.

I wish I could say I've figured everything out.

I haven't.

I'm still exhausted. I'm still grieving. I'm still navigating family illnesses, caregiving responsibilities, and the demands of work.

I still miss Daisy terribly. Will that ever go away?

I still carry the loss of my uncle and the sadness of five years without my daughter and grandson.

And I'm still learning how to establish boundaries without feeling guilty about them. 

But I also know I don't want to continue living this way.

At the beginning of 2026, I chose Consistency because I wanted to rebuild trust with myself.

And looking back, I realize I have actually been consistent.

I've consistently shown up for work. For my family. For the people who needed me. For the responsibilities and commitments I've made to others.

What I haven't done consistently is show up for myself.

That's a difficult realization, but it's also an important one.

Because it tells me that I'm capable of following through. I know how to make a commitment and do the work.

Now I need to apply that same dedication to my own well-being.

I've already spent considerable time thinking about what I want the next chapter of my life to look like, and I've developed an intentional plan for 2027.

I'm not going to get into all the details here. That's a conversation for another day.

But I will share the three words I've chosen as my theme for 2027.

Reclaim. Reset. Rebuild.

Those words represent more than another set of goals or resolutions. They reflect the work I know I need to do and the changes I want to make.

Not because I think a new calendar year will magically make life easier, but because I can change how I respond to life's demands. I can stop allowing every responsibility to automatically take precedence over my own needs. I can stop giving other people's opinions so much influence over how I see myself. 

And while there's still a lot I need to work on, I also need to acknowledge the progress I've made.

I've gotten better at setting boundaries, both personally and professionally. I've learned to say no, to recognize when something isn't my responsibility, and to stand up for myself when necessary.

That's something I wasn't always good at, and it's a change I'm proud of.

But I've also learned that protecting my time and energy from other people's demands isn't the same as consistently investing them in myself.

And I think that's where my biggest challenge lies.

And I can recognize that taking care of myself isn't selfish or something I have to earn after everyone else has been taken care of.

I don't expect perfection. I know there will be setbacks, difficult days, and times when I slip into old habits.

But I also know I can't keep making promises to myself that I don't honor.

Because every time I do that, I'm reinforcing the very thing I've been trying to change: the belief that my needs can wait.

I have a plan. I have a purpose. And now I need to make myself as much of a priority as I've made everyone else.

Because becoming the woman I want to be means finally showing up for the woman I already am.