My father’s decline didn’t happen overnight. It began with chronic dizziness and missed medications, then progressed to frequent falls. As Arthur Chase’s baby daughter, I had always seen him as strong and independent. But as his caregiver, I had to step into a new role that redefined our relationship and challenged me in ways I never imagined but wished I had prepared for sooner.
I never expected to become a caregiver in my 30s. Like many in the “sandwich generation,” I found myself balancing full-time and part-time work, raising children, managing a business, and becoming the primary caregiver for my aging father. Caring for my father in this way wasn’t something I planned; it was something life placed firmly in my hands. And in those hands, I had to hold everything — his health, his home, my own hopes.
There’s a moment that marks the shift from adult child to caregiver. For me, it was the morning I found my father confused, seemingly suffering from vertigo while trying to get out of bed. He said he felt unsteady and nauseous. His eyes moved back and forth. Despite repeatedly reporting these symptoms in their earlier, milder stages, and experiencing many evaluations, nothing could explain his dizziness or imbalance. Being told that his dizziness was not neurological in origin, his condition persevered and remained a mystery. From then on, I knew that it was not safe for him to stay alone in his house.
Caring for my father quickly became part of my daily rhythm. My husband cooked his meals while I coordinated his doctor visits, managed his medications, and helped him dress. But beyond the physical labor was the emotional weight: the grief of watching him lose parts of himself, the guilt of wondering if I was doing enough, the frustration of navigating complex systems not built fairly and equitably for people like us — low-income families trying to age in place with dignity.
People often talk about caregiving as an act of love — and it is. But it’s also labor, often unpaid and unacknowledged. According to AARP, over 53 million Americans serve as unpaid caregivers. The majority are women, and many, like me, are Black women doing this work in communities already facing systemic barriers to care.
There were days I wanted to quit — not because of lack of love, but because of sheer exhaustion. My body ached. My mind was foggy. I neglected my own health. I didn’t learn about “caregiver burnout” from a book, but from my own reflection.
Still, there were moments that anchored me — for instance, making my father laugh during a doctor’s appointment, playing his favorite music while we drove together, us going back and forth about which route he wanted me to take because I wanted to go my own way. Even when words were starting to fail him, these small moments reminded me that caregiving isn’t just about tasks. It’s about presence. About bearing witness to another person’s humanity, especially when that aging person is your parent.
Even when words were starting to fail him, these small moments reminded me that caregiving isn’t just about tasks. It’s about presence. About bearing witness to another person’s humanity, especially when that aging person is your parent.
During this time, I turned to meditation and prayer to help process the emotions I couldn’t always name. Those moments of reflection became blessings I now share with other caregivers who feel invisible and overwhelmed.
Navigating healthcare and social services felt like a full-time job. From Medicaid to waivers to endless forms, it was overwhelming. Information was often outdated, and eligibility felt like a moving target.
I had to become a fierce advocate. But it shouldn’t take a master’s degree and a spreadsheet to access basic help. And by basic help, I mean:
- Timely access to in-home care or home health aides
- Clear information on benefits and eligibility
- Case management and coordination
- Affordable adult day programs
- Emotional support and caregiver counseling
- Basic tech support for telehealth or digital tools
Technology is now part of caregiving, but for those without digital access or skills, it’s just another barrier.
Support is often fragmented, inconsistent, and inaccessible — especially for Black, immigrant, and low-income families. I constantly asked myself: if this is hard for me, how are others managing?
The system was never built with caregivers like us in mind. It assumed support came from a stay-at-home spouse with time, resources, and language fluency. Not for working caregivers juggling careers, children, and aging parents. Not for those doing this labor quietly, without recognition.
Caregiving taught me patience and strength, but also gave me a voice. I became an advocate — not just for my father, but for all caregivers navigating impossible choices.
Caregiving taught me patience and strength, but also gave me a voice. I became an advocate — not just for my father, but for all caregivers navigating impossible choices.
I found community through caregiver groups and local events. We shared advice, grief, and joy. We celebrated small victories: an approved nurse, a new program spot. These connections reminded me that healing happens in the community.
I began creating resources, advocating for policy change, and building a caregiver-centered brand. It became clear: caregivers need systems that recognize and support them.
Caregiving isn’t a pause in life — it is life. It’s grief and love coexisting. It’s unseen labor. And it’s sacred.
If you know a caregiver, ask how they are. Offer help. Hold space.
If you are a caregiver, I see you. You are not invisible.
My father’s health continues to evolve, and so does my role. I’ve learned to ask for help, to set boundaries, and to care for myself.
Over 20% of Baltimore residents aged 60 and older live below the federal poverty line, suggesting that many older adults, and by extension their caregivers, are grappling with financial hardship. But income doesn’t change the core needs: rest, dignity, support. When caregivers are unsupported, care suffers.
Everyone hopes for good care. Caregivers do too. We can’t pour from an empty cup.
If we all saw ourselves as caregivers, we’d value the people behind the care. We’d understand that their quality of life matters.
We must not let broken systems stand in the way. We must unite behind solutions that care for caregivers — because good care begins with those who give it.
Precious Chase-Barnett is a Baltimore-based writer, systems thinker, family caregiver and caregiver advocate. She builds tools, spaces, and stories rooted in care — working to reimagine and rebuild systems with equity, healing, and digital access at the core.