When “She's Got It ” Becomes the Answer to Everything

When “She's Got It ” Becomes the Answer to Everything

When my father became seriously ill, people kept asking him versions of the same question: “Who is helping you?”

The answer was usually simple.
“My daughter, Suzanne.”

What I understand now is that the question itself created assumptions.

People heard that I was a therapist. They saw that I was organized, capable, informed, and willing to step in. They saw that I could communicate with providers, manage appointments, understand medical language, advocate, problem solve, and hold things together during crisis. Somewhere along the way, “Suzanne is helping” slowly became “Suzanne can handle it.”

Looking back, I do not think most people meant harm by that. I think it reflects a much larger issue within caregiving systems and family culture. We often identify who the caregiver is without fully evaluating what caregiving will actually require from that person over time.

There is a major difference between identifying a caregiver and assessing caregiver capacity.

Those are not the same thing.

Nobody sat down with me at the beginning and said, “Here are all the resources available to both you and your father. Here is what becomes available at different stages of decline. Here is how you access those resources. Here are the support groups available for caregivers. Here are the trainings that can help you safely move, support, or care for him. Here are the signs that you are carrying too much. Here are the areas where people often struggle emotionally. Here are the places where we need to support you too.”

The focus was always primarily on him as the patient, and I understand why. My father was the one who was sick. He was the one living with kidney failure, calciphylaxis, painful wounds, cancer and compounding health issues. His needs mattered deeply to me. But what became clear over time is that the caregiver becomes part of the treatment system whether anyone formally acknowledges it or not.

Without me, many things simply would not have happened.

That is true for millions of caregivers.

The medications still need to be tracked. The appointments still need to be made. The insurance still needs to be called. Someone still has to coordinate transportation, monitor changes, manage paperwork, respond to emergencies, regulate emotions, advocate during appointments, and absorb the constant uncertainty that comes with watching someone decline.

Caregivers are not standing outside the system just observing it with the occasional comment or opinion. We become part of the operational structure holding it together.

Yet most support resources are still designed as though caregivers are secondary to the process instead of essential to it.

One of the conversations that keeps coming up now is self-care. People ask why families, churches, communities, or support systems did not do more. Others ask what I would have done differently if I could go back. The older I get and the more I process the experience, the more I realize those questions are both personal and systemic at the same time.

Yes, there are things I could have done differently. I could have asked more direct questions earlier. I could have pushed harder to understand available resources before crisis moments happened. I could have been more intentional about maintaining support systems for myself instead of waiting until I was already overwhelmed.

But I also think we oversimplify caregiving when we place the entire responsibility for caregiver wellness onto the individual person carrying the load.

When there is literally no space left in the twenty-four hours of a day, something eventually gives. Most of the time, it is the caregiver.

That is not always because the caregiver failed to prioritize themselves. Sometimes it is because there are only so many hours, only so much money, only so much emotional capacity, and only so much physical energy available inside a system that already stretches families beyond sustainable limits.

I also realized something else while reflecting on this recently: when I was caring for my father, I was not thinking primarily as a therapist. I was thinking as a daughter watching her father slowly disappear while simultaneously watching the future I imagined for myself begin to slip away too.

That changes the equation emotionally.

People often assume that knowledge protects you from the emotional weight of caregiving. It does not. In some ways, knowledge can increase awareness of what is happening while still leaving you feeling powerless to stop it.

At the same time, there were things that genuinely helped me cope, even if I did not fully recognize their importance then.

Journaling became one of those things. When I consistently wrote things down, I noticed I could think more clearly during the day. Writing helped me release some of the emotional pressure that had been building internally so I could focus on what needed to happen next instead of carrying every thought at full intensity all day long.

The other thing that unexpectedly helped me was gardening.

When my father moved into my home, we brought several plants from his house with him. At the time, I was not someone who knew much about plants. But somewhere deep inside, I connected keeping those plants alive with keeping him alive too.

So I started learning.

Caring for the plants gave me something important that caregiving itself often removes: a momentary shift in focus without fully disconnecting from responsibility. I could step outside, stay physically close enough to hear if my father needed something, but mentally engage with something different for a little while.

I was learning something new. I was moving my body. I was using my hands. I was focused on sunlight, watering schedules, growth patterns, soil, and problem solving instead of only fear and hypervigilance. Looking back now through both personal and professional lenses, I can see how regulating that experience was for my nervous system.

The tactile experience mattered.
The movement mattered.
The learning mattered.
The temporary mental redirection mattered.

And maybe that is part of the larger caregiving conversation we need to start having more honestly. Support for caregivers cannot only be reduced to generic advice about “taking care of yourself.” Caregivers need practical support, emotional support, training, education, nervous system regulation, community, respite, and realistic conversations about capacity before they are already drowning.

Because identifying a caregiver is not the same thing as supporting one.