When Life Pivots Without Asking: Navigating Caregiving, Clarity, and the Unexpected

I returned from Jack Canfield’s final Breakthrough to Success training filled with clarity, inspiration, and a fierce sense of momentum. I had my next steps lined up. I felt aligned. Energized. Ready. But the minute I stepped out of the safety of the training room and came back to my reality, everything changed. My life—without asking—had pivoted.

Five hours after I boarded the plane to head west, my dad was admitted to the ER for a fall. He was subsequently admitted to the hospital, and then to a rehabilitation center for a shoulder injury. The good news was that I was able to stay in California and manage his care without having to leave the event. What I was hoping would be a short detour for my dad has become more complex. It has turned into a full-time job of managing details, solving problems, advocating for care, and navigating a maze of logistical, medical, and emotional challenges. Every visit brings a new list of complaints and things for me to do: pay these bills, bring protein drinks, the food is awful, my pain is out of control, I don't like this CNA, I want to go home, I need you to fix this… and this… and this.

He’s scared. He’s overwhelmed. He has been through a lot over the past ten days. And he has way too much time to think. And I’m the person he leans on for everything.
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What’s more, and quite alarming, is that when I got home and visited him at the rehab center, he was not at all himself. Yes, he had been through a lot, but something wasn't right. My clinical assessment skills kicked into high gear to figure out what was going on. I turns out that there were major medication errors that started in the hospital and got carried through to the rehab center. Errors that could have cost him his life. Unraveling what happened has taken time, energy, and relentless follow-up. I’ve learned more than I ever wanted to know about how hospitals document (or don’t), how errors get passed along, and how easily a system can fail someone you love.

And then there’s me.

My asthma, which had been reasonably well-controlled, has flared dramatically since I returned to Florida. I felt better in Vegas. I felt even better in California. But here, something feels off—like there’s something in the air (mold? humidity? dust mits?) that’s weighing heavy on my chest, disrupting my sleep, and making it harder to breathe—literally and figuratively. I’m exhausted.

I've never really loved living in Florida.  The energy has never felt quite right for me here, but now it has become quite clear that there is something here that is affecting my health.

I want to focus. I want to write. I want to build what I saw so clearly at BTS. But my days are being consumed by managing my asthma, caregiving logistics, medical advocacy, emotional support, and putting out fires that don’t seem to stop.

I’ll be honest—there’s a voice inside me that just wants to escape. To hit the road. To drive far away, into the mountains, or near the ocean, or on a lake, and not look back. And then, almost immediately, guilt rolls in and I feel selfish: How can I think that? He needs me. He raised me. He was there for my for my whole life.

But here’s the truth I’m sitting with:
There’s a difference between being selfish and taking care of yourself.

Selfishness ignores the needs of others. Self-care acknowledges them—while also recognizing your own.
You cannot pour from an empty cup. You cannot stay aligned with your purpose if you’re constantly in triage mode.

And you certainly can’t offer your best to someone else if you’re disconnected from yourself.

I can’t be a full-time caregiver. If I stay here long enough, the system will assume I’m available and discharge him early into my care. And when the visiting nurses clock out, I’ll be expected to clock in.

I know how that story ends—because I’ve been there before. I've lost pieces of myself. I've lost lots of money. I've lost momentum. I've lost my mental well being. And I’m not willing to do that again.

So here I am. In the in-between. Navigating hard choices, complex emotions, and a whole lot of uncertainty. I'm trying to stay connected to the clarity I felt just a couple weeks ago and trying to remember that it’s okay to hold both truth and tenderness, responsibility and boundary, love and self-preservation.

This is where I am today. Not forever. But just for today.

Maybe, just maybe, you’re here too. Or you’ve been here. Or you’re afraid it might be coming.
If so, let this be your reminder:

You are allowed to reevaluate.
You are allowed to have needs.
You are allowed to say not like this.
You are allowed to take care of yourself, without apology.
And even in the mess, there’s still a path forward.
I’m finding mine—one breath, one decision, one boundary at a time.

My dad is settled in. Tbe wrinkles in his transition to rehab have all been ironed out. He is being taken care of. I've done all I can do to deal with the urgent matters and support him in the process. Now it's time for me to prioritize my own needs. For today it is relaxing with an extra cup of tea, adding an inhaler to my regimen to settle down my breathing, curling up with my cats and giving myself permission to rest ... and maybe write a bit. It's time to get back to center with my tried and true self care basics.

If you're navigating a difficult season, I invite you to come back to center with me.
My free course, Foundations for Heart-Centered Living, offers the simple daily practices I’m leaning into right now—like Heart Breathing to settle the nervous system, and Heart Talks to approach hard conversations with love and clarity.
It’s gentle. It’s grounding. And it might be just what your heart needs.
👉 Click here to access the free course.

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