My alarm goes off at 3am.

Most mornings I lie there for just a moment before I get up — listening to the sounds of my house. The television still going in the next room. Footsteps. The refrigerator opening. My dad, David Sr., is probably already awake too, because sleep doesn't come easy for him anymore. It doesn't come easy for either of us.

I get up, get dressed, and head to work as a clothing stocker at a retail store while most of the world is still asleep. I come home to a father who needs me, a household to manage, and a marriage to tend to — all while quietly carrying a kind of grief that doesn't have a funeral, a casserole, or a socially acceptable end date.

This is my life right now. And I wouldn't trade my dad for anything. But I would be lying if I said it was easy.

So who am I?

I am a wife. A working woman. An empty nester who thought this season of life was going to look a little different than it does. I am someone who has always shown up for the people she loves — even when showing up is inconvenient, exhausting, and heartbreaking all at once.

And now I am a caregiver.

My dad, David Sr., is 76 years old. Earlier this year he had a mini stroke and a blockage. He is a type 2 diabetic. And last Saturday — just a handful of days ago as I write this — he moved into my home.

He is here. He is alive. And he is not entirely the man I grew up knowing.

The dad I knew was sharp. Independent. Proud. Put together. The David Sr. who lives in my guest room now is always cold, always hungry, repeats himself, struggles to sleep, and needs help with things he once handled without a second thought. I love him without question. And I am grieving him at the same time.

There is a name for that — grieving someone who is still alive. It's called ambiguous loss. And when I discovered those two words I felt, for the first time, like someone understood what I was carrying.

Why this blog?

I started Still Here, Someone New because I went looking for the honest version of caregiving online and I couldn't find it.

What I found was inspirational quotes and self-care checklists. What I needed was someone to tell me it was okay to cry in my car in my own driveway. Someone to tell me that the resentment and the guilt and the love and the exhaustion can all live in the same body at the same time and that doesn't make you a bad daughter — it makes you a real one.

So I decided to write what I needed to read.

This blog is built around something called ambiguous loss — the grief you carry when someone you love is still here but has changed in ways that feel like loss. Every post I write comes from that place. From the real, messy, beautiful, devastating experience of loving someone through it.

Who is this blog for?

This blog is for you if —

-You are lying awake at 2am wondering if what you're feeling is normal. It is.

-You love your parent fiercely and you are also running on empty. Both things are true.

-You smiled and said "I'm fine" to someone today when you were absolutely not fine. I've been there this week.

-You are the one who shows up — and some days you don't know how much longer you can keep showing up at the same pace. That is not weakness. That is honesty.

-You are not alone in this. I promise you that.

A little more about me —

I am a wife and I am grateful every day for a partner who is walking through this season beside me. I am an empty nester who spent years looking forward to a quieter house — and got a very different kind of quiet instead. I go to work at 3am stocking clothes while the world sleeps, come home to make sure my dad has eaten the right things for his diabetes, check that he is warm enough, listen to his stories, and somewhere in the middle of all of that, try to remember to take care of myself too.

I am not a doctor. I am not a therapist. I am not a caregiving expert with a certification on my wall.

I am just a daughter doing her best.

And if that is enough for you — you are in exactly the right place.

Pull up a chair. I'll probably put on coffee. David Sr. will tell us a story we've already heard. And somehow, that will have to be enough for today.

— Tanya

About

Still Here, Someone New is written by Tanya — a daughter caregiving her 76-year-old father after a stroke. This blog is for every family grieving someone who is still here.

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