I love my son. I need to start with that.

He’s 47 now, and I’ve been his full-time carer every single day of those 47 years. From diaper changes long after other kids were potty trained, to teenage tantrums that never quite went away, to now—helping him button his shirt and reminding him, again, where the cereal is.

Some days, I see other couples our age traveling, downsizing, relaxing. Retirement. I smile politely when they talk about cruises and hobbies. But inside, I ache a little. Because that was never going to be our story.

We didn’t plan for this life. No one really does. When he was born, they told us he might not live past childhood. That we should prepare for the worst. But the worst never came. He lived. He grew. And we adjusted—one impossible day at a time.

And still, we keep adjusting. Every year, the challenges shift, but they never seem to ease. There’s always something more. It’s always a new doctor, a new treatment, a new issue. The truth is, when I look back at my life, I feel like I’ve been running on autopilot for decades, never really getting a chance to catch my breath.

I can’t even remember the last time I did something just for myself. My world has always revolved around him. His needs, his care, his health. I’d forgotten what it felt like to live for me, to have my own life outside of being his caregiver. I always thought I was doing the right thing, that being there for him was the only thing that mattered. But now, as I’m nearing my seventies, I wonder—was it worth it? Did I sacrifice everything for him, only to watch my own dreams slip away, piece by piece?

It sounds horrible, doesn’t it? But if I’m being honest, there are days when I resent him. Not him, exactly—but the life I’ve had to live because of him. There are days when I think back to when I was young, to the time before he was born, and I wonder what could have been if things had gone differently. If he had been healthy. If he had been the child we hoped for.

I still remember the first time the doctors gave us the grim prognosis. My heart sank, but I held onto hope. I was young then, full of energy and optimism, thinking that somehow, some way, we’d overcome whatever came our way. And we did, but at what cost? As the years passed, it became clear that this wasn’t a phase. This wasn’t something we’d “overcome” in a year or two, or even ten. This was our life. And I was his only lifeline.

When he was in his twenties, I started feeling the strain on my own body. The endless hours of caregiving, the lack of sleep, the emotional toll—it started to wear me down. But I kept going. Because what other choice did I have? He was my son, and I loved him. That love kept me going through the toughest of times. Even when I felt exhausted, even when I didn’t have the strength to carry on, I somehow found a way.

But now, as I look back, I can’t help but feel a deep sadness. A sadness for the woman I used to be, the one who had dreams of travel, of adventure, of living life freely. Instead, I’ve been tethered to this routine, to this unchanging life. And I wonder, as my body grows older, if I’ve made a mistake by not prioritizing my own happiness sooner.

I know that sounds selfish. I do. But the truth is, there are times when I feel like I’ve given so much and received so little in return. He’ll never be able to truly understand the sacrifices I’ve made. He’ll never be able to live independently, to live the life I always dreamed of. And that thought—of knowing that my sacrifice has meant nothing in the grand scheme of things—hurts more than anything else.

It wasn’t always like this. When he was younger, we had some good years. I could see the potential in him, even though he couldn’t communicate like other kids, even though he couldn’t do the things others could. I saw the sparks of life in his eyes, the joy he got from simple things, and I held onto that. I told myself that as long as he was happy, that’s all that mattered.

But happiness is a fleeting thing. And as the years have gone by, I’ve realized that it’s been harder and harder to keep him content. His world has shrunk to the walls of our home. He doesn’t ask for much, but even the smallest things—like taking a walk down the street—have become monumental challenges.

One evening, as I helped him into bed, I caught a glimpse of the clock. It was late, later than I usually stayed up. I was exhausted, my muscles aching, my mind foggy. I glanced at him, sleeping peacefully, unaware of how much I’d sacrificed for his well-being. And I felt a wave of frustration wash over me.

I didn’t want to feel this way. I didn’t want to resent him, but the weight of the years—of 47 years of nonstop care—was too much. It felt like an endless cycle, and I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep up.

That night, I cried. I cried for the woman I had been, for the woman I could never be again. I cried for the life I thought I’d have, for the vacations I’d never take, the experiences I’d never get to live. I cried because I felt so incredibly alone, even though I had never been alone.

The next morning, something changed. Maybe it was the exhaustion, maybe it was just the sheer weight of everything I’d been carrying. But I realized something: I couldn’t keep going like this. I couldn’t keep pretending that everything was fine when I was falling apart inside. I needed help. I needed to stop carrying this burden alone.

It wasn’t easy, asking for help. For years, I had been the one to take care of everything. But when I finally reached out to a support group for parents of adult children with disabilities, I was shocked by what I heard. Other people understood. They didn’t judge me for feeling resentful, for feeling like I was drowning. They knew exactly what it was like to love someone so deeply but feel like their own life was slipping away.

One woman shared her story, and it was like she was speaking directly to me. “I had to let go of the guilt,” she said. “I had to realize that it’s okay to take care of myself. It’s okay to ask for help. And it’s okay to feel frustrated. You’ve been carrying this weight for so long, but you don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

Those words were like a revelation. I didn’t have to do it alone. I could still love my son, still care for him, but I could also take steps to reclaim my own life. It was going to be a slow process, but I knew it was possible.

I started by hiring a caregiver a few days a week to help with his care. At first, it was hard to let go of that responsibility, but it was also a relief. I could finally take a walk by myself, go to the grocery store without rushing back, spend a few hours reading a book or watching a movie.

And slowly, I began to rediscover myself. I remembered who I was before all this. I remembered the joy I used to find in small things, in moments of solitude and peace. I began to laugh again, to feel a little lighter, even if it was just for a few hours at a time.

The karmic twist in all of this? When I started to care for myself, when I finally let go of the guilt and resentment, something shifted in my relationship with my son. He began to respond differently. He seemed calmer, more content. Maybe it was because I wasn’t as worn out all the time, or maybe it was just the simple fact that I was more present with him in a way I hadn’t been in years.

By taking care of myself, I was able to take better care of him. And that realization was the most rewarding gift I could have ever received.

So, if you’re reading this and you’re carrying a burden that feels too heavy to bear, know that you don’t have to do it alone. It’s okay to ask for help, it’s okay to take care of yourself. Because in doing so, you’ll find the strength to keep going, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll discover parts of yourself you thought were lost forever.

Please share this with someone who might need to hear it, and don’t forget to like if you believe that self-care is a vital part of caregiving. We’re all in this together.