"My Watch Is Over... Now What?"

My mom died today.

25 years ago.

My life was changed forever that morning.

But, despite the unimaginable grief, stuff still had to get done.

Contact the funeral home.

Notify all relevant family and friends of her passing.

Gather life insurance paperwork.

The last things you want to do, but they still have to get done.

While fishing for the insurance paperwork in the file cabinet at home, I stumbled upon a small notebook.

It had no writing on the cover, but was adorned with small flowers overlaying a light beige background, with autumn-like solid orange running vertically along the spine of the journal.

My curiosity nudged me to open it.

A few lines later, another entry read:

Shaking like a leaf, I slammed it closed while saying to myself, “Nope…Nope…can't read this right now” before immediately shifting back into "get stuff done" mode.

But eventually, the doing stopped.

The paperwork was filed.

The calls were made.

The wake…the funeral had come and gone.

And what was left was a silence I didn't know what to do with.

The days and weeks after my mom died were the quietest I'd ever known.

No more running around town trying to fill pain medication prescriptions that were out of stock nearby.

No more feeding her popsicles because that was all she could tolerate in the final days.

The calendar that had governed every single day for months—doctor appointments, medication schedules, chemo & radiation treatments—was suddenly clear.

And I felt...

Nothing.

The silence didn't feel peaceful…it felt like disappearing.

For so long, I'd been needed. Every single day, multiple times a day, I had a purpose:

Keep Mom comfortable, keep her safe, and keep her here as long as possible.

And then...she was gone.

And I wasn't needed anymore.

People asked how I was doing, and I'd say "I'm okay" because I didn't know what else to say.

The truth was too complicated: I felt relieved and guilty about feeling relieved.

Exhausted but unable to rest.

Free but completely untethered.

If you're here, maybe your calendar's gone blank too.

Or maybe you see that day approaching, and you're quietly bracing yourself for the silence that follows…

Wondering what comes next.

When caregiving ends with death, you don't just lose the person you loved.

You lose:

• Your identity as a caregiver
• The routines that structured every day
• The purpose that got you out of bed each morning
• The version of yourself you've been for months or years

What's left is a strange, hollow kind of grief that doesn't always look like sadness.

Sometimes it looks like:

• Numbness – Walking through days on autopilot because you don't know what else to do
• Relief mixed with guilt – Feeling grateful the suffering is over, then feeling terrible for feeling grateful
• Identity freefall – Not knowing who you are when you're not someone's caregiver
• Physical and emotional exhaustion – Finally crashing after running on adrenaline for so long
• Restlessness – Feeling like you should be doing something, but having nothing to do

Here's what I want you to know: All of this is normal.

You're not broken.

And you're not grieving “wrong.”

You're experiencing what happens when the role that consumed your entire existence suddenly vanishes.

The caregiving may have ended, but the work isn't over.

It's just different now.

Now the work is internal: grieving, processing, and slowly…VERY slowly…figuring out who you are on the other side of this.

There's no roadmap for this transition.

No timeline that says "by week three, you should feel like yourself again."

But there are small, grounded ways to move through this season without forcing yourself to "get over it" or "move on."

1. Allow yourself to feel the nothingness without fixing it right away

You may feel an urgent need to fill the void (e.g. sign up for classes, dive into work, plan trips), anything to avoid the emptiness.

Resist that urge, at least for a little while.

Your nervous system has been in overdrive. Your mind and body need time to recognize that the crisis is over.

Give yourself permission to exist in the in-between space.

To not have all the answers yet.

To simply be.

2. Create a ritual to close the caregiving chapter

Grief needs acknowledgment.

Transitions need markers.

Consider creating a small, meaningful ritual to honor what you've been through:

• Write a letter to your loved one to tell them everything you wish you could say
• Plant something in their honor: A tree, flowers…anything that grows
• Create a memory box with photos, letters, or small items that remind you of them
• Light a candle on significant dates and sit quietly with your thoughts

These rituals don't erase the pain, but they give it shape.

They say: This mattered. They mattered. And what I did for them mattered.

3. Rebuild your sense of self by reconnecting with people, practices, or passions you put aside

Caregiving asked you to set aside parts of yourself—hobbies, friendships, routines you used to love.

Now is the time to gently reach back toward those pieces.

• Call an old friend you haven't spoken to in months
• Pick up a book you've been meaning to read
• Take a walk in a place you used to love
• Try a creative outlet (e.g. painting, writing, gardening)…something that lets you express what words can't

You don't have to rush. You don't have to force it. But slowly, intentionally reconnecting with the parts of yourself that existed before caregiving can help you remember: You're still here. You're still whole.

4. Let your nervous system rest. Grief isn't lazy…It's Work

You've been running on stress hormones for months, maybe years.

Hypervigilant.

Always on alert.

Ready to respond to the next crisis.

Now that the urgency is gone, your body may crash.

You might sleep more than usual, or struggle to sleep at all.

You might feel exhausted even after doing "nothing."

This is recovery, not weakness.

Your nervous system is recalibrating.

Let it.

For so long, caregiving may have felt like your entire identity.

And now that it's over, you might wonder: Who am I without this?

Here's what I know to be true:

You were never just a caregiver.

You are a person with:

• Value beyond what you did for someone else
• Worth that doesn’t depend on being needed
• A life that still matters…even now

The transition from caregiver to... whatever comes next... is messy and nonlinear.

Some days you'll feel like you're finding your footing.

Other days, the grief will knock you sideways all over again.

Both are okay.

You're still here.

And you still belong.

Even in your grief.

Even in the emptiness.

Even when you don't know what comes next.

You matter.

📘 Book Pick: It's OK That You're Not OK: Meeting Grief and Loss in a Culture That Doesn't Understand — Megan Devine
A compassionate, no-nonsense guide for navigating grief without pressure to "move on" or "find closure." Devine validates the messy, ongoing reality of loss and offers practical ways to survive it with your humanity intact.

🔗 Article: Life After Caregiving: Navigating the Transition — Family Caregiver Alliance
A thoughtful resource addressing the emotional, practical, and identity challenges that emerge when caregiving ends. Offers concrete strategies for rebuilding your life while honoring what you've been through.

📽️ Video: "Life After Caregiving: Rediscovering Yourself" — YouTube (by Tammy Provencal, Neuro Ninja Care)
A thoughtful and encouraging video from a dementia-certified physical therapist and life coach. Tammy shares practical guidance and mindset shifts for navigating the personal transformation that follows caregiving.

Know someone who's in (or approaching) this season of their caregiving journey?

⏩ Please forward this to them.

And If you are in this season, I’d love to hear from you:

💡What has surprised you most about life after caregiving ended?

What's helped you begin again?

👉🏾 Hit reply and let me know.

Your story might help someone who’s still trying to find their footing. And sometimes, that’s everything.

With you,

Bryce

P.S. If you haven't already, come join me on social. I share daily tips, personal reflections, and first looks at upcoming caregiver tools and resources. Even one post might shift your whole day, or remind you that you're not alone in this.

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