Vibes-Only Caregiving: The Small Wins That Save Us
Vibes-Only Caregiving: The Small Wins That Save Us
Time stands still even when it doesn’t.
At-home memory care is messy, exhausting, and often feels like living Groundhog Day nobody asked for—so the small wins aren’t cute extras; they’re the only reason we’re still standing. This post is all about the “vibes-only” victories: the coffee runs, Coke bubbles, car rides, and 45-second moments of clarity that keep her feeling human and keep me from turning into a sleep-deprived ghost in yoga pants. It’s spicy, honest, and a little unhinged—because joy in this circus is never an accident.
We talk about the hard things: Boundaries, Bubbles, Resets, and Loops. We trade stories of burnout and blowups and the way this disease rearranges every single corner of a life—hers and ours—and how it all looks from the outside peeking in. Everyone gets reshuffled. Business relationships, families and friends, spouses and significant exes… no one’s untouched.
But do we talk about the wins?
They look small and insignificant from the outside, but they’re the only reason caregivers don’t tap out. They’re what keep us confident in the work we do to protect and defend our independent, spicy, sassy-ass Alzheimer’s memory care people—the ones living with the disease that shapes our days and turns long-term care into the longest road.
Home caregiving is chaotic, wildly unpredictable, and the kind of exhausting that seeps into your bones. Some days it just feels like the same exhausting episode on repeat—same chaos, different day. But without the small wins… why do it?
This is the start of a new series: the shit that actually feels good. The tiny victories. The glimmers. The stuff that keeps us from turning into hollow-eyed zombies who only talk about meds, meltdowns, and medical bills.
Let’s start with the small wins.
Small Wins, Big Heart
Small win #1: Waking up happy
She wakes up happy each and every morning, like everything is brand new and actually worth getting up for.
She’s got the energy and mind of a 10-year-old, even when the body and joints protest, crack, and complain about every single movement.
She doesn’t remember what happened yesterday… but she remembers how to greet today like it’s a present. I can’t predict when that will change, if it will change, or if the change will be long-lived or just a blip. What I can say is that 90% of the time, the day starts the same: exciting and full of possibilities.
My job as a primary care provider is to help keep it that way.
I’m more successful at that today than ever. (Read the other posts on how I achieved max villain status to the people who don’t live here, in her BUBBLE / RESET / LOOP.) To her, I’m the fucking daylight and joy, because she still recognizes that I’m doing my best to stay happy no matter what drama, chaos, or emotional shrapnel flies later.
I will absolutely bribe with the promise of getting out for a special treat that feels like forever ago, even if it was literally yesterday. #cindolce
Honestly? Same, girl. Teach a masterclass. #asyouwish has a whole new meaning here, and all spicy vibes are very much intended. #fuckit we do the things.
Small win #2: The sacred Starbucks run
The Starbucks coffee run is a treat and a privilege that has created a very clear, very accurate vibe:
“I’m spoiled in the best way.”
Does she remember what she ordered last time? Nope. Does she re-experience the thrill of it every single time as if she’s never had a latte before? Absolutely.
And that’s the magic.
What looks like “one more errand” from the outside is actually:
A reason to put on real pants (for one of us)
A chance to leave the cozy cottage without the word appointment attached to it
A tiny ritual that says: you still matter, you still deserve joy, and we are not just leaving the house for labs, scans, and scopes
Spoiled? Yes. Earned? Also yes.
And yes, that “expensive” cup of coffee? It no longer has actual coffee in it, thanks to health needs and doctor orders. She doesn’t care. It’s not about the caffeine. It’s about the experience, the cup in her hand, the feeling that she is still part of the world.
Does she know the coffee bean was spared in her cup? Absolutely not. Mine and hers—we’re a team. I take the hit.
That’s the win.
Small win #3: Fountain Coke therapy
A fountain Coke drive-thru stop, just for the hell of it, followed by a cruise through 51 years of neighborhoods.
The houses look the same. The lives inside them are not. The street names haven’t changed, but the stories have.
We drive down memory lane—literally—while her brain runs its own DJ set on the past.
Lizzo, Jessie Murph, Tiësto on the speakers… she’s not your average 77-year-old. She’s all spice and sass and always up for whatever matches the mood. #spicyass #burnbadassburn
She doesn’t remember all of it. Sometimes she remembers it wrong. Sometimes she remembers flashes so vivid that it’s like they’re happening right now.
And sometimes she just enjoys the bubbles in the Coke and the fact that we’re out together, windows down, talking about “that one house” where something happened in 1974 that neither of us can fully reconstruct—depending on whether we even want to open that door to old, tragic chaos.
No thanks. I know how to shut the fuck up and keep happy vibes only.
Is it historically accurate? No idea. Is it a win? 100%.
Small win #4: The good moments still outweigh the bad
The good moments still outweigh the bad—even if only for a short stretch before reality slides back in and a looped memory takes over the controls.
I picture it like a lasso whipping around inside her head, catching random neurons and dragging them into the spotlight whether they’re invited or not.
But there’s this sweet little window before the loop tightens. In that sliver of time, there is:
Real laughter
Real connection
Real eye contact that says, “I know you. I love you. I’m glad you’re here.”
Those seconds are tiny, infuriatingly fleeting… and they’re also the fuel.
This is the part nobody claps for. There’s no medal for “Kept my shit together during a 45-second moment of clarity.” But this is exactly what keeps me walking back into the ring, round after round.
Small win #5: Outings with no plot, just vibes
The randomness of getting out of the house is its own kind of therapy.
The reason we left? Already forgotten by the time we hit the second stoplight. The outing itself is fun, because it just is.
We’ve hit “vibes only” caregiving. We’re not here for a big moral, a deep milestone, or a life-altering adventure. We’re here for the “We got in the car and didn’t end up crying in a parking lot” kind of day.
These wins are the hardest to share because they’re more fleeting now than they were six months ago, a year ago, or back when this was just “a little forgetful.”
Memory loss sucks. It’s brutal, disorienting, and unfair. So no, I’m not going to focus solely on that. I refuse.
The Reality Sneaking Around the Edges
The end is not as far away as it used to be. We all know it.
There will come a time when these little outings won’t be possible—when the body, or the brain, or both, will say, “Nope, we’re done with that chapter.”
So we take every opportunity now. We:
Chase the good days
Stretch the okay days
Salvage the terrible days with something small and sweet and silly
We push back against the heaviness by refusing to let every car ride become a trip to another specialist.
Because let’s be honest: most outings now involve a doctor’s visit, some new test, or yet another waiting room with terrible magazines if we forgot the cell phone—or a constant barrage of texts and questions that yank attention away from the fragile little moment of fun we’re trying to have.
If that’s all we did, of course she’d say:
“I’m not getting in the car. All we do is doctors. I want to do something else. Or we don’t need to leave the cozy cottage at all.”
And honestly? She’d be right.
So we manufacture something else.
On purpose. Fiercely. Stubbornly. Because joy does not accidentally happen in this season—we have to drag it in by the hair and give it a seatbelt.
Behind the Scenes of Looking “So Good”
We know she looks great. People tell us all the time.
And I know I’m the primary reason that’s true.
I’m the one who:
Styles the hair so it looks like her, not just “a woman with short hair”
Lays out the favorite clothing so the mirror feels friendly, not confusing
Pushes the comfy shoes instead of the “They look fine, but you’ll regret them in 14 minutes” pair
Adjusts the plan when a memory lapse has us both wondering why we even got in the car in the first place
On paper, it looks like we’re just “running errands” or “grabbing coffee.” In reality, it’s a full-scale production:
Wardrobe
Hair & makeup / glam
Transportation
Logistics
Emotional support
I’m the caregiver, the stylist, the chauffeur, the stage manager, and the understudy for her short-term memory—all at once.
This is what it takes to create one small win in the coffee shop for the overly “expensive” cup of coffee that, in reality, no longer even has coffee in it.
From the outside, it might look like, “She’s doing great!” From the inside, it’s choreography, timing, negotiation, and love—layered over bone-deep exhaustion.
Both things can be true.
And here’s the blunt part: a lot of the people who brag about how “good” she looks are the same ones who won’t or can’t put in this effort. They get the highlight reel. I live backstage.
If We Do It for Kids and Dogs…
We take small children for car rides to help them sleep. We take dogs for rides because it “makes them happy,” “gets their energy out,” and “they like to feel included.”
So why not do the same for memory care sufferers so they can feel value, joy, and fun vibes too?
Why is a dog with its head out the window called adorable, but an elder with dementia riding shotgun on a random Tuesday is seen as “a lot of work,” “unnecessary,” “risky,” or “sad”?
Spoiler: it’s not sad. It’s sacred.
It’s humanity in motion:
Coffee runs
Fountain drink drive-thrus
Neighborhood drives
Silly detours into “We don’t even remember why we left, but we’re out now, so let’s enjoy it.”
These are not extras. They are the point.
The memories fade, yes—but the feeling of accomplishment, of being included, of being cared for and cared about? That does not fade as fast.
Those feelings linger. They build a kind of invisible scaffolding. They say:
You are still you. You are still worth the effort.
And honestly? Caregivers need that message too.
Welcome to the Positive Side of the Shit Show
This post is the first in a new series about the positives of at-home memory care.
Not toxic positivity. Not Hallmark. Spicy, honest, slightly unhinged, “this shit is bananas but sometimes beautiful” positivity.
We’re going to talk about:
The weird little wins that no one puts in pamphlets
The shoulder-shaking laughter that shows up in the middle of a really bad day
The tender routines that keep both of us from completely unraveling
The way joy and grief keep showing up together, like messy roommates who share a closet
Because caregivers don’t just need validation for our suffering. We also need permission to:
Enjoy what’s still good
Celebrate what still works
Say, “Today was actually fun,” without feeling guilty
If you’re in the thick of at-home memory care:
You’re allowed to chase small wins.
You’re allowed to build them on purpose.
You’re allowed to brag about them.
In fact, I hope you do.
Because in this house—in this series—the small wins are not small at all.
They’re how we survive.
And if time stands still even when it doesn’t, then I’m damn well going to fill those still moments with coffee, Coke, car rides, and as many spicy, sassy, sparkly little joys as we can pack into them.
Stay tuned. The shit is still bananas. But there’s sweetness in here too—and we’re going to talk about it.
