The Q life Grief Journey

When people talk about caregiving, they often picture tasks: medications, meals, appointments, helping someone stand, helping someone breathe, helping someone make it through another day. And yes, caregiving is all of that.

But caring for Quinten for those two years was something deeper.
Something life-altering.
Something that didn’t just fill my days, it rewrote who I am.

Those years changed me in ways I’m still trying to understand.

For two years, my entire world revolved around my son’s needs.
Every morning began with checking on him.
Every night ended with wondering how he would be by morning.
Every decision, every plan, every ounce of energy flowed into keeping him comfortable, supported, and loved.

My life became smaller and bigger at the same time.
Smaller, because there was no space for anything but caregiving.
Bigger, because love stretched me into places I didn’t know I could go.

Caregiving changed me physically; exhaustion carved itself into my bones.
It changed me emotionally; grief began long before he took his last breath.
It changed me spiritually in ways I’m still unraveling.

I learned to be strong in moments when I wanted to collapse.
I learned to be patient when fear clawed at my heart and mind.
I learned to stay steady even as my own world was cracking.

Caregiving reshaped my definition of love.
It became something quieter, humbler, deeper.
It became showing up on the worst days.
It became holding his hand through pain.
It became about celebrating tiny victories and enduring devastating losses.
It became doing whatever needed to be done, even when it broke me.

I learned what it truly means to advocate fiercely.
To speak for him.
To fight for him.
To comfort him when no comfort felt big enough.

I learned what it means to surrender, to accept that I could not save him, even though every part of me wanted to try.

Those two years taught me that love is not only laughter and joy, it is also sacrifice, worry, sleepless nights, holding your breath, and choosing to do it all again the next day.

Caregiving also changed the way I see time.
I learned to treasure the ordinary, a conversation, a small smile, a moment of clarity, the way he would say, “I love you, Momma.”

When caregiving ended, when my purpose shifted in an instant, I felt hollow. Lost. Untethered.
Because the role that had consumed my days, the role I poured my entire heart into, was suddenly gone.

People tell you caregiving ends when the person dies.
But that’s not true.
The caregiving lives on in your muscle memory, in your routines, in the ache of your empty hands, in the way your body still anticipates his needs.

Caregiving changed me forever, not just because of what it demanded, but because of what it gave me:

Time with my son that I will cherish until the day I die.
Moments of intimacy, honesty, and closeness that most parents never get.
The honor of walking him all the way home.

I would do it again, every moment, even knowing how it ended.
Because caregiving was the final chapter of my motherhood with him.
And it shaped me into someone braver, softer, wiser, and more deeply human than I was before.

Caregiving was hard.
It was heartbreaking.
It was sacred.
And it changed me forever.