The Exhaustion No One Sees: Guilt, Anger, and Getting Through the Hardest Days, Part 3
Caregiver exhaustion—emotional and physical—doesn’t just run at full speed; it sprints, doubles back, and does victory laps on your nervous system. Caregivers live this role around the clock, juggling constant tasks in a world that often feels like it’s held together with sticky notes, appointment reminders, and pure adrenaline.
Behind every serene caregiver is a hallway meltdown just waiting to happen—bonus points if you haven’t cried in a supply closet this week. And if you have? That doesn’t make you weak; it makes you a human being doing an inhuman amount of work.
In this no-holds-barred confessional, we spill the tea on guilt, resentment, and burnout—not to be dramatic, but because you’re probably already living it. I’ll hand you bite-sized, actually doable ways to care for yourself (and maybe even ask for help) without feeling like you’ve just failed the Caregiving Olympics in front of a panel of judges who’ve never changed an adult diaper.
When Caregiver Exhaustion Shows Up as Guilt, Anger, and Grief
Alongside the fatigue, it is completely normal to feel things like guilt, resentment, grief, and even anger—the whole emotional buffet no one advertised in the brochure.
You might question yourself, worry you’re not doing enough, or feel quietly furious at the relentless demands on your time and energy. Even when you’re already stretched thin, tough choices still have to be made—and made quickly—about things that might seem "minor" to everyone else: which appointment to cancel, which bill to delay, which argument isn’t worth having today.
These emotions are not signs of failure—they’re the side effects of loving and caring in complex, high-pressure situations that would break most people in half.
You’re not broken because you’re tired. You’re tired because you keep showing up, again and again, for someone who needs more than one person’s worth of care.
When Caregiver Burnout Hits All at Once
Sometimes the exhaustion sneaks up on you. Other days, it hits like a wave—and then another wave, and then the entire ocean.
“I remember one day when everything seemed to build up at once. My mom had been up most of the night, which meant I barely slept, and by noon, we were both running on fumes. A spilled breakfast, a missed phone call, and a stubborn disagreement about her clothes felt like the last straw on a camel that was already carrying the whole barn. I found myself standing in the hallway, fighting back tears and wondering how I could keep going. In that moment, I called a friend and let myself vent for just five minutes—not looking for advice, just needing someone to listen. Afterward, I took a few deep breaths, put on her favorite music in the kitchen, and we both slowly found our feet again.” ~anonymous
That day wasn’t pretty, and I definitely didn’t do everything perfectly, but we got through it one moment at a time—no gold stars, just survival.
Sometimes, letting yourself pause and reach out—just for a little while—really does help you keep going. Not because it fixes everything, but because it reminds you that you’re still a person, not just a care machine.
This is the part no one really prepares you for: you can love someone with your whole chest and still feel completely wrung out by their care. You can be grateful and pissed off, devoted and resentful, compassionate and burned out—sometimes in the same hour, sometimes in the same five minutes.
None of that makes you a bad caregiver. It just makes you human in an inhuman situation.
Naming Caregiver Guilt, Resentment, and Anger (Without Shaming Yourself)
Caregiving has a way of dragging every hidden feeling into the light, whether you’re ready or not:
Guilt that you’re not doing enough—or that you secretly want a break longer than one rushed trip to the grocery store.
Resentment when it feels like you’re carrying more than your share while everyone else offers “thoughts and prayers” from a safe distance.
Grief for the person they used to be, and the life they used to have—and the version of your own life you thought you’d be living right now.
Anger at the disease, the situation, the system, or even at them—followed by a fresh wave of guilt for feeling it.
We’re often taught to swallow these feelings because we “should” just be grateful we still have them here, as if gratitude cancels out exhaustion.
But pretending they aren’t there doesn’t make them go away. It just pushes them underground, where they build pressure until it all leaks out as hallway tears or snapping at someone over the wrong brand of cereal.
Sometimes the kindest thing you can do for yourself is to say the quiet part out loud, even if you only whisper it to yourself in the car:
This is hard. I’m tired. I miss my old life. I love them, and this is still hard.
All of that can be true at the same time.
There is nothing disloyal about telling the truth of your experience. Honesty doesn’t cancel your love; it protects your sanity.
Simple Self-Care Ideas for Exhausted Caregivers
If today felt impossibly hard, remember: you are doing your best, and that truly is enough. Your effort counts in a million quiet ways you’ll probably never get credit for.
When you’re this exhausted, the idea of “self-care” can feel like a cruel joke. You don’t need a spa weekend and a scented candle set. You need five minutes to breathe without anyone calling your name from the next room.
If you’re feeling the weight of this role, remember: you’re not alone, even if it often feels like you’re the only adult in the room.
Simple self-care routines can make a real difference, even when they feel small:
A short walk outside (even just to the mailbox and back)
A few minutes of mindful breathing in the bathroom with the door closed
Jotting thoughts in a journal—bullets, fragments, whatever fits
Listening to your favorite music instead of the news for once
Savoring a cup of tea without multitasking, just for the length of the mug
Try building these into your day in ways that feel realistic—not Instagram-realistic, caregiver-realistic:
Take five minutes after breakfast to breathe deeply and stretch, even if you’re doing it next to the sink full of dishes.
Jot down a thought or two in your journal while your loved one naps—even if it’s just, “Today was a lot.”
Enjoy a cup of tea on the porch after dinner and let yourself stare at nothing for a minute.
Plan a short walk outside in the afternoon to reset your nervous system, even if it’s a slow lap around the block.
None of these erase the hard parts. But they do remind your body and brain that you still exist in this story too—and that you’re more than your to-do list.
How to Ask for Caregiver Support (Even When You’re Overwhelmed)
When it all feels like too much, reaching out to organizations like the Alzheimer’s Association or a local caregiver resource center can connect you with help, encouragement, and community—people who speak “caregiver” without needing subtitles.
Not sure where to start? Ask your doctor, social worker, or local hospital for recommendations on support groups or caregiver resources in your area. Sometimes just having a name or a number to call makes all the difference—a tiny lifeline tucked in your pocket.
If you feel stuck about what to say when you reach out, here are a couple of scripts you can borrow:
“Hi, I’m caring for a loved one with Alzheimer’s, and I’m feeling overwhelmed. Can you tell me if there are any support groups or resources available nearby?”
(That’s it. You don’t have to sound polished or put-together.)
“I’m new to being a caregiver, and I don’t know where to start. Do you have any advice or information that could help?”
Having a few words ready can make asking for help a little less intimidating, especially on the days when just dialing the number feels like a lot.
You don’t need a polished speech prepared. You don’t have to know exactly what you need. You just have to be honest: I’m caring for someone I love, and I need support. That sentence is enough.
You Don’t Have to Be a Caregiver Alone
Caregiving often feels like a solo job—just you, your loved one, and a never-ending list of tasks that somehow grows overnight. But you are not meant to carry all of this on your own.
Support can look like:
A friend who listens while you vent on the phone and doesn’t try to “fix” you
A sibling who takes one afternoon shift a week so you can remember what silence sounds like
A neighbor who drops off a meal that you didn’t have to plan, cook, or pretend to enjoy
A support group where you don’t have to explain every detail or apologize for how you feel
A social worker, therapist, or faith leader who helps you process the harder feelings without judging you for them
You are not weak for needing help. You are wise for recognizing that this role is bigger than one person—and that even superheroes have teams.
Your exhaustion is not proof that you’re failing. It’s proof that you’ve been doing the work of three people for far too long, without the pay, benefits, or days off.
Getting Through Caregiver Burnout One Moment at a Time
That hallway moment—the one where you stand there, fighting back tears, wondering how you’ll keep going—is not the end of your story. It’s just one frame in a much bigger picture you’re still in the middle of writing.
Some days, your victory is getting all the meds right and everyone fed. Other days, it’s remembering to drink a full glass of water and step outside for three minutes. Both count. Neither goes on a trophy, but both keep you going.
If today felt impossibly hard, remember:
You are not alone in this.
You are allowed to feel everything you feel.
You are doing more than you realize, and more than most people will ever see.
In the next part of Dazey’s Diary, I’m talking about another piece of the load caregivers carry but rarely discuss out loud: family conflict—the accusatory comments, the side-eyes over money, and what it really takes to protect your loved one’s wishes when not everyone agrees, but everyone has an opinion.
For now, take a breath. Unclench your jaw. Drop your shoulders. You made it to this moment, and that matters more than you know—no medals, no applause, just the quiet truth that you’re still here.
