Counting My Blessings
Dear Gentle Soul,
Several years ago, I faced a health scare that shook me to my core. What began as a routine checkup soon led to a recommendation for outpatient surgery—a phrase that, though it sounds minor, brought with it a wave of anxiety, uncertainty, and vulnerability. The surgery itself went as planned, but the recovery was longer and more complicated than I had anticipated. There were a few setbacks—nothing life-threatening, thankfully—but enough to humble me and shift my perspective. I was, and still am, incredibly grateful that the final outcome was one worth celebrating. I often say I dodged a bullet, and I truly mean it. That experience reminded me just how fragile life—and health—can be. It made me count my blessings in a whole new way.
What lingered most, though, wasn’t just the physical healing, but the emotional vulnerability of needing help. Being on the receiving end of care was unfamiliar territory for me. I had always been the caregiver. I took care of both my parents during their final years, each of them declining with terminal illnesses and passing within three years of one another. It was heartbreaking and exhausting, but I wouldn’t trade those moments for anything. Years later, I became the primary caregiver for my husband, who suffered from dementia. That journey came with its own heavy toll—mentally, emotionally, and physically.
As difficult as caregiving is—and make no mistake, it is grueling work filled with heartbreak, sleep deprivation, and invisible sacrifice—I would still rather be the one offering care than the one needing it. There’s a kind of helplessness in being dependent on others that is hard to describe. I remember trying to make a simple cup of coffee after surgery and being utterly drained afterward. Something so small felt like climbing a mountain.
And yet, caregiving, for all its challenges, remains one of the purest forms of love I’ve ever known. It’s the sacred, often unseen labor of the heart. Whether you’re caring for a parent who once carried you through your earliest years or a spouse you’ve shared decades of life with, stepping into that role is a quiet, profound expression of devotion. It’s a promise lived out, day by day, even when the days are hard.
If you find yourself in that role—either as a caregiver or someone facing health struggles—please remember: you are not alone. There are resources available to help lighten your load, whether through community organizations, your church, local agencies, or health support groups. And never hesitate to ask for help from family, friends, neighbors, or professionals. Strength doesn’t mean doing it all yourself. Sometimes, the greatest strength is in receiving.
Most importantly, if you are a caregiver, please take care of yourself. This is not a luxury; it’s a necessity. You cannot pour from an empty cup. Go for a walk. Get a pedicure. Pause for a quiet cup of tea. Meet a friend for lunch. Journal. Meditate. Do whatever it is that nourishes your soul, brings you joy, and gives you a moment of peace. Not only do you deserve it, you need it. Your ability to care for someone else will be that much more enhanced if you care for yourself first.
This journey of illness, recovery, and caregiving taught me to cherish the smallest blessings—a hot shower, a heartfelt conversation, a moment of quiet, the strength to make coffee again. It reminded me that life’s greatest treasures are rarely wrapped in perfection, but in presence, perseverance, and love.
So today, I count my blessings—with a heart full of gratitude and a soul softened by the grace that carried me through.
Peace and Gentle Blessings,
Beth