August 27, 2024.

My mother had fallen out of her wheelchair. Again.

I couldn’t lift her by myself. Again.

I called 911 for emergency lift assist. Again.

It took the emergency responders 45 minutes to convince my mother to go to the hospital. Forty-five minutes of reasoning, negotiating, pleading with her while I stood there—exhausted beyond comprehension, patience completely gone, feeling something inside me finally break.

For 16 years, I had no boundaries. I couldn’t have boundaries. Because when someone’s survival depends on you, where do you draw the line?

I thought having boundaries meant I was selfish. I thought saying “no” meant I didn’t love her enough. I thought asking for help meant I was failing.

But here’s what I learned the hard way: the absence of boundaries doesn’t equal love. It equals self-destruction.

This is what 16 years of caregiving taught me about boundaries—lessons I wish I’d learned sooner.

Lesson 1: “No” Is a Complete Sentence

When you’re a caregiver, everyone assumes you’re available. All the time. For everything.

Your own appointments get rescheduled. Your plans get canceled. Your needs get postponed.

Because how can you say “no” when someone needs you?

But here’s what I learned: guilt is a powerful manipulator. Even when it’s unintentional.

My mother never meant to make me feel guilty. But every time I tried to set a boundary—”I can’t come today, I have an appointment”—there was a response. A sigh. A “Well, I guess I’ll be fine.” A comment about how hard it is to be alone.

And I’d cave. Every single time.

I rearranged my life around her needs. I postponed my own medical care—even after surviving sepsis—to make sure she was okay.

I thought saying “no” meant I didn’t love my mother. But saying “yes” to everything meant I didn’t love myself.

Here’s what I wish I’d known: “No” is a complete sentence. You don’t have to justify it. You don’t have to explain it. You don’t have to apologize for it.

“I can’t today” is enough.

“That doesn’t work for me” is enough.

“I need to take care of myself” is enough.

You’re not a bad daughter. You’re not a bad person. You’re human. And humans have limits.

Lesson 2: You Can’t Pour from an Empty Cup—And You Don’t Have to Try

I survived sepsis three times while caregiving.

Three times, I walked through death’s door. Three times, I chose to come back.

And every single time, as soon as I was stable enough, I went right back to caregiving.

My body was screaming, “Stop. Rest. You need to heal.”

But I didn’t listen. I couldn’t listen. Because if I stopped, who would take care of my mother?

I thought that made me devoted. It made me depleted.

I wore my exhaustion like a badge of honor. Look how strong I am. Look how much I can endure. Look how I never complain.

But that wasn’t strength. That was martyrdom. And martyrdom doesn’t serve anyone—not you, not the person you’re caring for, not the people who love you and are watching you disappear.

Here’s what I learned: Your needs are not less important than the person you’re caring for.

Read that again. Your needs are not less important.

You are not selfish for needing rest. You are not weak for needing help. You are not failing if you can’t do it all alone.

You can’t pour from an empty cup. And you shouldn’t have to try.

If I could go back and tell myself one thing, it would be this: Take care of yourself WHILE you’re caregiving, not after you collapse.

Lesson 3: Asking for Help Isn’t Weakness—It’s Wisdom

For 16 years, I didn’t ask for help.

I told myself I didn’t need it. That I could handle it. That no one else could do it the way I could.

But really? I was terrified of what asking for help would mean.

Would it mean I was failing? Would it mean I wasn’t a good daughter? Would it mean I was weak?

So I didn’t ask. I just kept going. Alone. Exhausted. Breaking.

Until August 27, 2024, when a hospital social worker looked at me and said what I’d been too afraid to admit: “You need help.”

And something inside me cracked open.

She immediately started working to find my mother a bed in a skilled nursing facility. Within days, my mother was transferred from the hospital to professional care.

And for the first time in 16 years, I could breathe.

A month later, I packed up my personal belongings, left Savannah, and drove to Denver. Two months after that, I relocated to Las Vegas—where I’m rebuilding my life at 57, finally choosing myself.

I didn’t fail by asking for help. I failed by waiting so long to ask.

Here’s what I wish I’d known: asking for help is not a sign of weakness. It’s a sign of wisdom.

It’s recognizing that caregiving is not supposed to be a solo mission. It’s not supposed to destroy you to prove you love someone.

If you’re a caregiver reading this and you’re drowning, please ask for help. Talk to a social worker. Look into respite care. Reach out to family, friends, your church, community resources.

You don’t have to do this alone. And you’re not less devoted if you don’t.

Lesson 4: Your Body Will Make the Decision If You Don’t

I didn’t choose to stop caregiving.

My body chose for me.

By August 2024, I was 56 years old and felt 76. I had aged a decade in a few years. There were bags under my eyes. My hair was thinning. My body ached constantly.

I couldn’t walk up a flight of stairs without stopping to catch my breath. I was postponing my own medical care—even routine checkups—because I didn’t have time. I was living on 4-5 hours of sleep a night. My body was giving me every warning sign, and I kept ignoring them all.

After my mother was transferred to the skilled nursing facility, I finally had space to breathe. And when I looked in the mirror, I didn’t recognize the woman staring back at me.

I didn’t see Karen. I saw someone who had given everything and had nothing left.

My body had been screaming at me for years:

Through chronic pain
Through exhaustion that sleep couldn’t fix
Through three bouts of sepsis
Through the inability to lift my mother anymore

But I kept ignoring it. I kept pushing through. I kept making my body the sacrifice.

Until my body said, “No more.”

Here’s what I learned: if you don’t set boundaries, your body will set them for you. And by then, you’ve already lost so much.

Listen to your body now. Not when it’s screaming. Not when it’s breaking. Not when it’s forcing you to stop.

Your body is not a tool. It’s a temple. And it deserves your stewardship, not your sacrifice.

Lesson 5: Boundaries Protect Everyone, Not Just You

Here’s what took me 16 years to understand: moving my mother to skilled nursing wasn’t abandonment. It was admitting she needed more care than I could give alone.

She needed professional medical support. She needed physical therapy I couldn’t provide. She needed a team of caregivers, not one exhausted daughter who was breaking under the weight.

Boundaries don’t mean you stop loving someone. They mean you love them—and yourself—enough to recognize what’s needed.

When I finally set that boundary—when I finally said, “I can’t do this by myself anymore”—it wasn’t betrayal. It was stewardship.

Did I feel guilty? Absolutely. The guilt was crushing. But guilt is not the same as doing something wrong. Sometimes guilt is just the price we pay for choosing life—ours and theirs.

Boundaries protect everyone. Not just you.

They protect the person you’re caring for by ensuring they get the level of care they actually need.

They protect your relationships by preventing resentment from building.

They protect your health so you can actually be present instead of running on fumes.

Setting a boundary doesn’t make you a bad person. It makes you a wise one.

Lesson 6: You Don’t Get Those Years Back—Protect the Ones You Have Left

I can’t get back 16 years.

I can’t reclaim the decade of my 40s and early 50s that I spent in survival mode.

I can’t undo the damage to my body, the grief I never processed, the woman I could have been if I’d had boundaries sooner.

But I can tell you this: I’m not wasting the years I have left.

At 57, I’m finally choosing myself. I’m finally learning that my life is valuable. That my needs matter. That I deserve rest, peace, and a life that doesn’t require constant sacrifice.

And I’m teaching this to other women so they don’t wait as long as I did.

If you’re a caregiver right now, please hear me: you don’t have to lose yourself to love someone.

You can set boundaries and still be devoted.

You can ask for help and still be a good daughter, wife, mother, sister.

You can choose yourself and still honor the people you love.

It’s not either/or. It’s both/and.

What I Want You to Know

If you’re a caregiver right now—if you’re exhausted, if you’re losing yourself, if you’re wondering how much longer you can keep going—please know this:

Your life is not less valuable than the person you’re caring for.

Your needs are not selfish. Your exhaustion is not a character flaw. Your desire for rest is not a sign of weakness.

And if you’re breaking, it’s okay to say, “I can’t do this anymore.”

It’s okay to ask for help.

It’s okay to move your loved one to professional care.

It’s okay to choose yourself.

I wish I’d learned this sooner. I wish someone had told me that boundaries weren’t betrayal—they were survival.

But I’m learning it now. And I’m teaching it to anyone who needs to hear it.

Boundaries aren’t abandonment. They’re love—for the person you’re caring for, and for yourself.

You deserve a life too. And it’s never too late to start building it.

If you’re navigating caregiving, burnout, or learning to set boundaries for the first time, join my email list. Starting in January 2026, I’m teaching women how to heal, embody their sovereignty, and build lives that don’t require self-sacrifice—the sovereign soft life I’m now living at 57.

You deserve a life too. Let me help you build it. 🦋💜