Seven years ago, I began stepping back.
Not all at once but just enough to adjust. I started reducing hours, working from home, taking on smaller jobs that gave me space to be with him. To soak up the time while his memory was still intact. I told myself: Let’s make good memories now, while we can. For the harder days ahead.
I kept juggling multiple roles, short hours, different hats. I was still me, just a scaled-back version. Still contributing. Still in control.
But gradually, the letting-go began. One job at a time. Quiet resignations. Little decisions that felt necessary, not dramatic. And then his memory loss worsened. The confusion deepened. The anger surfaced, not at me, really, but at what was being lost.
At the same time, I started losing confidence in myself. I wasn’t performing at the level I once did. I missed things. I got reminders for tasks I forgot or did late. And I felt it: the sting of shame, the sense that I was failing—not just him, but everything. The multitasker in me, the professional, the woman who once thrived on structure and sharpness… she felt like she was slipping away too.
Eventually, I stepped back further. Not because I stopped caring—but because I couldn’t keep pretending I could do it all. The roles needed more than what I had left to give.
And with that came fear.
Fear of the future.
Fear of not having enough —financially, emotionally, mentally — when this chapter ends and I’m left to begin again. Fear of facing that future alone.
This isn’t the life I imagined.
But it’s the life I’ve quietly stitched together, threaded with duty, love, exhaustion, and grief. I gave up those jobs one by one, not because I was weak but because I was holding someone else’s life together.
And somewhere in the middle of all that letting go… I forgot to hold onto myself.
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