Guilt in Caregiving: The Feelings No One Talks About

I’m starting to think guilt is just part of this journey. No matter how much I try to push it aside, it finds its way back in.

Lately, I feel it most when I think about my husband. I hate that I can’t be there for him the way I want to be. He’s incredibly supportive, never once making me feel like I have to choose—but he’s 15 hours away most of the time for work, and we’re lucky if we see each other every two or three weeks. I know he wonders how long this will last. He just loves me enough not to say it out loud.

And then there’s the guilt I don’t even like admitting.

The quiet thought that I wish this would end soon.

Because ending means peace—for my mom. It means no more suffering, no more slow fading of the person she used to be. When I look at it logically, I know it’s the most humane outcome. But it still feels wrong to think it. Wrong to say it. Wrong to carry it.

She hasn’t really been living for a long time now.

I think the depression settled in years ago. These days, her world has become very small—mostly confined to her phone. Hours spent scrolling through Facebook reels or playing games. No interest in going outside. No desire to do anything beyond passing the time.

Just waiting.

Some days, I want to take the phone out of her hands and never give it back. It feels like it’s taken more from her than it’s given. But at this point, it’s one of the only things she has left. Taking it away wouldn’t help—it would just be cruel.

More guilt.

And then there’s my dad.

Watching dementia take hold of someone who was once so strong is a different kind of heartbreak. He was a pillar of the community. A building contractor known for being the best at what he did. Work wasn’t just his job—it was his identity. He never needed hobbies because building things, creating, providing…that was everything to him.

Now his world is confusion, weakness, and moments that don’t quite connect.

And again, the guilt creeps in.

Because deep down, I don’t want this life for him. I don’t want him to exist in this version of reality for long. I find myself praying—not for more time, but for less suffering.

That’s a hard thing to admit.

But if there’s one thing I’m certain of, it’s this:

When all of this is over, I won’t feel guilty about how I showed up.

I am here. Fully here.

I am giving my time, my energy, my patience—everything I have to give. I am choosing to be present in moments that are messy, painful, and sometimes unbearably heavy.

And somehow, within all of that, there is still something meaningful.

Because not everyone gets this kind of time.

Not everyone gets the chance to sit beside their parents in the hardest chapter of their lives. To hold their hand. To witness it all. To love them all the way through to the end.

It may be wrapped in exhaustion and heartache—but it’s also a kind of privilege.

And that is something I will carry with me long after the guilt is gone.