Between Sunup and Sundown: A Four-Part Journey
A Day in the Life: When “Normal” Doesn’t Exist -1
“You are doing enough.” You are, even when you don’t feel it, see it, or you’re told you aren’t.
Dazey’s Diary is for caregivers who never got a manual, and for the "experienced" ones still winging it every day. This isn’t sugar-coated advice; it’s real talk, practical support, and zero judgment in a world of scams, deep fakes, and nonstop worry. You’re not failing; you’re dealing with a lot, and you don’t have to do it alone. I see you, and you’re doing better than you think.
Some days feel like a blur of tiny emergencies, lukewarm coffee, and conversations you replay in your head hours later. You start with a plan, but by mid-morning you’re already three crises behind—and still trying to remember if you ever finished that first cup of coffee.
There are moments no one sees: the quiet sigh in the hallway, the forced smile when you’re exhausted, the way you keep showing up anyway because people are counting on you. You juggle schedules, emotions, and expectations—and then lie awake at night wondering if you did enough.
This is what a “normal” day looks like when normal doesn’t really exist. It’s messy, imperfect, and somehow still full of small, meaningful moments that keep you going. #bossy #spicy
Today, I’m pulling back the curtain on what really happens between the first alarm and the final light turned off—what I got right, what I completely failed, and the one moment that changed how I see my day-to-day.
Morning: When the Day Starts Before the Alarm
This morning technically started when my phone began blaring at 4 a.m., but I was already awake, listening for the motion sensor to confirm what the unlocked-door notification had told us minutes before. Automation is a savage beast of annoyance and a useful fucking tool I can’t live without in memory caregiving 101.
By 6:15, I had reheated the same cup of coffee twice and was trying to untangle an emotional tantrum over what was and what is. I’ve become the organizer of a mess of life stories and big emotions that don’t always match the reality of the day’s activities.
On the iPad, a video was playing—obvious deep-fake AI garbage to anyone else—but it felt real to her. Nothing was going to convince her otherwise. In her mind, this was truth vs. fake, and she was determined to get to the bottom of it.
At 7:00, I was caught between soothing my mom, who couldn’t remember where her password “blackbook” was, and talking to her doctor’s office about rescheduling an appointment after another rough night. By lunchtime, when she asked for the sink stopper for the third time, I paused, squeezed her hand, and explained again, gently. (You know that middle finger and what it means? Well, I got both and a flick of the wrist. “You can go now!”)
I had been dismissed in a fit of frustrated, childlike mamma-bear anger—her feelings of not being taken seriously and not wanting to be coddled. These outbursts are more common than anyone tells you, and they are not a reflection of how well you’re caring. If your loved one lashes out sometimes, please know you aren’t doing anything wrong—it’s just part of the process.
This is what caregiving really looks like in the wild: you’re managing alarms, appointments, technology, and safety, while also absorbing a storm of feelings that don’t always make sense but still land hard.
When It Feels Personal (But Isn’t)
Words, looks, the flick of a wrist and a “You can go now”—they land like accusations, even when you know, logically, that the disease is driving the reaction.
When emotions run high like this, I try grounding myself with a simple trick: I plant my feet on the floor, take a slow breath, and quietly repeat to myself, "This isn’t about me. I am here, I am steady." Sometimes even just naming how I feel—"This is hard, and I’m doing my best"—helps keep me calm in the moment.
These tiny practices don’t fix everything, but they keep me from spiraling when everything feels like it’s coming at me at once. Sometimes even a single slow breath, a silent mantra, or briefly stepping into the hallway is the difference between reacting from pure exhaustion and responding with a little more steadiness.
These small, real moments are where the day is won or lost. I’ve learned to count the victories—even if it’s just sharing a laugh over spilled toothpaste or stealing two minutes of fresh air outside.
Let’s start at the very beginning: the moment everything already started going off-script…
If You’re Just Starting Out
If you’re feeling overwhelmed, you’re not alone. Many people stepping into the role of full-time in-home caregiver quickly discover how complex and demanding it really is—something you can’t fully grasp until you’re in it. It goes far beyond “just helping out” for a short time.
If you’re just starting out and don't know where to begin, here are three immediate steps that can help you feel a bit more grounded:
Write down the daily routine. Note what is working and what feels most stressful. Even a simple list helps you start spotting patterns and priorities.
Gather the basics. Keep medication lists, emergency contacts, and important health documents in one easy-to-find place. This saves precious time and eases your mind.
Choose one small act of self-care. A five-minute walk, a favorite song, or calling a friend. Your well-being is part of the equation, too.
You don’t have to fix everything at once. You don’t have to be the perfect caregiver (spoiler: that person doesn’t exist). You just have to take the next small step that makes your day a little safer, a little calmer, or a little kinder to both of you.
This Is What a Day Looks Like
From the outside, it might look like “just” a normal day at home: a parent and adult child, a pot of coffee, a few phone calls, a misplaced notebook. On the inside, it’s constant assessment, constant adjustment, and constant emotional triage.
This is what a day in the life looks like when normal doesn’t really exist. It’s early alarms and motion sensors, deep-fake videos that feel real, the third question about the sink stopper, and the middle finger that stings more than you want to admit. It’s the hallway sigh, the forced smile, the quiet mantra: This isn’t about me. I am here. I am steady.
If today felt impossibly hard, remember: you are doing your best, and that truly is enough. Your effort matters more than you know.
In the next part of Dazey’s Diary, I’m going deeper into one tiny object that turned into a whole lesson in safety, dignity, and “the hardest kind of logic”: the sink stopper—and how small adaptations can change everything when you’re caring for someone with memory loss.
