Week 2: Was This My Calling? The Question That Wouldn’t Go Away

Caregiving didn’t tap me on the shoulder with clarity and calm.

It arrived in waves—unexpected, relentless, and emotional. And from the very beginning, one question followed me like a shadow:

Was this my calling?

There were hard days. Days when the weight of managing my brother Clint’s Frontotemporal Dementia and our mom’s stage-4 cancer felt unbearable. Days when I questioned whether I was strong enough. Days when I missed the freedom of retirement and wondered if this was really how I was meant to spend the next season of my life.

But there were also moments. Quiet, sacred ones. The kind that stopped time and answered that lingering question in a whisper.

One of those moments happened on a regular afternoon. Clint and I were riding around the yard in my golf cart. The breeze was soft, the sun filtered through the trees, and everything felt still. He reached over, touched my arm, and asked me to stop.

When I did, he looked at me and said, “Aren’t you retired?”

I nodded, “Yes.”

Then he asked, “You have a life… why take care of me? You need to live your life.”

His voice cracked under the weight of emotion. Mine did, too.

I looked at him and said, “I am living my life. You are my life right now, and I’m living it with you. You’re my brother—and you need me right now.”

He began to sob. Then, with tears streaming down his face, he whispered, “Thank you.”

In that moment, I felt something shift. A calmness washed over me. The question that had followed me so persistently—Was this my calling?—suddenly felt answered.

Yes. It was.

Not because I had chosen it. Not because it was easy.
But because love often looked like showing up, sacrificing, and staying present. And I knew—deep in my spirit—that this was sacred work.

Clint may not have remembered that moment in the days or weeks that followed, but I did. I carried it in my heart as a reminder that this chapter of my life was not a detour. It was not wasted. It was my purpose, unfolding.

If you’ve ever found yourself asking whether caregiving was your calling, I want you to know—sometimes the answer comes softly, in the stillness, in a shared moment that reminds you:
You were right where you were supposed to be.

Blog series - “Called to Care: Finding Meaning in the Midlife Caregiving Journey”

Week 1: When Life Rewrites Your Script

From Soldier to Full-Time Caregiver: The Unexpected Chapter of Purpose

They say life begins at 50—but I don’t think they meant caregiving, heartbreak, and grief all rolled into one. Yet for me, that’s exactly how this chapter started.

After serving 30 years in the U.S. Army, I had plans for retirement: travel, rest, maybe rediscovering a few passions I’d set aside while in uniform. Instead, I found myself back in the trenches—only this time, the mission was deeply personal.

Not long after hanging up my boots, my world shifted again. My marriage of over 20 years came to an end. I was emotionally raw, navigating the shock of divorce, unsure of who I was outside the roles I had lived for decades: soldier, spouse, and mother.

And then came the call to care.

My oldest brother, Clint—a proud U.S. Air Force veteran—was diagnosed with early onset Frontotemporal Dementia at just 54. Around the same time, our mom, Carol, received devastating news: her breast cancer had returned, now stage 4 and in her spine. Both needed care, and fast.

There was no blueprint. Just a decision: I brought them both into my home and became their full-time caregiver.

No more uniforms. No more certainty. Just day after day of managing appointments, medications, meals, emotions, and unpredictable moments of cognitive and physical decline. I had gone from Army operations to learning the rhythms of dementia care, from inspecting performance to inspecting pill organizers and managing bath and meal time. And truthfully? Some days, I didn’t know who I was anymore.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t easy. But slowly, I realized something: life had rewritten my script, not erased it. All the years of leadership, service, and resilience had prepared me—just not in ways I had expected. I wasn’t fighting for a nation now. I was fighting for them—for Clint’s dignity, for Mom’s comfort, for the right to be heard in every hospital hallway and doctor's office.

This is the beginning of my story in midlife caregiving—not just about loss and sacrifice, but about finding strength when life calls you into unexpected service.

In this series, I want to explore the question I wrestled with in the dark moments:
"Is this my calling?"

Maybe you’ve asked yourself that, too.

Whether you’re just stepping into caregiving, or years into the journey, I invite you to walk with me as we look at how caregiving can break us open—and reveal purpose, even in pain.

The Emotional Earthquake — Grieving Someone Who’s Still Here

Receiving a diagnosis of early-onset frontotemporal dementia (FTD) is life-changing — not only for the individual, but for their loved ones as well. Beyond the medical facts lies an emotional reality that is rarely discussed: the experience of anticipatory grief.

Anticipatory grief is the deep sadness and mourning that begins long before physical death occurs. It arises as families watch the slow, often confusing loss of the person they knew, even while that person is still physically present.

The Layers of Loss

With FTD, the losses come in layers:

• Loss of shared memories and conversations.

• Loss of familiar personality traits and emotional connection.

• Loss of future plans and imagined milestones.

Because early-onset FTD affects behavior, judgment, language, and emotional understanding, families often find themselves interacting with someone who feels profoundly different. The shift can be heartbreaking.

In many ways, caregivers and family members are grieving two realities at once:

1. The gradual loss of the person as they once were.

2. The uncertain future they now face together.

Common Emotional Responses

The emotional toll of living with early-onset FTD can be significant. Common experiences include:

• Sadness and Depression: A profound sense of sorrow for both present losses and future changes.

• Anger and Resentment: Feelings of injustice, especially when the disease affects someone so young.

• Guilt: Wondering if more could have been done, or feeling guilty for moments of frustration.

• Loneliness: A sense of isolation from friends, extended family, and even the broader community.

It is important to recognize that these emotions are normal. Grieving while caregiving does not mean you are giving up — it means you are deeply human.

Strategies for Coping

While anticipatory grief is painful, there are ways to navigate it with care:

• Name the Grief: Acknowledging the emotional reality is an important first step. Naming what you are feeling allows you to address it rather than suppress it.

• Seek Support: Connecting with dementia support groups, therapists, or counselors who understand FTD can provide validation and strategies for coping.

• Honor the Person: Look for small ways to honor the individual’s essence — their humor, passions, or moments of connection that still shine through.

• Create Meaning: Journaling, art, advocacy work, or legacy projects can offer a sense of purpose and healing during a time of profound change.

Moving Forward Together

Anticipatory grief does not have a clear endpoint. It ebbs and flows, often resurfacing at milestones and new stages of the disease. By approaching these emotions with honesty, support, and compassion, families can find resilience even in the midst of loss.

While FTD changes so much, it cannot erase the love that underpins the relationship. That bond — even as it evolves — remains a powerful source of strength.

Week 1: A New Road We Never Expected

Hi, and welcome.

If you’ve found your way here, chances are you — like me — know the complicated, confusing world of early-onset frontotemporal dementia (FTD). Maybe it’s touched your family. Maybe it’s your diagnosis. Or maybe you’re just beginning to suspect that something isn’t quite right. Wherever you are in this journey, please know this: you’re not alone.

When we first heard the words frontotemporal dementia, it felt like someone had pulled the ground right out from under us. I’ll never forget sitting there, trying to process what the doctor was saying — something about personality changes, language loss, and no real cure. It didn’t make sense. After all, this wasn’t supposed to happen to someone so young, so full of life.

That’s the thing about FTD: it doesn’t follow the rules we expect from dementia. It sneaks in, not with forgetfulness at first, but with changes in behavior, mood, or speech. Things that are so easy to misread — as stress, depression, even just "getting older." It often takes years to get a proper diagnosis. Years of wondering. Years of second-guessing ourselves.

This blog series is my attempt to shine a light for anyone who is walking this uncertain road. I want to talk honestly about what it’s like to live with, and alongside, early-onset FTD. The heartaches, yes — but also the unexpected moments of beauty, humor, and love that this journey can reveal.

Each week, I’ll share pieces of our experience:

• How we learned to adapt to new challenges.

• How we found strength in unexpected places.

• How we continue to find meaning, even on the hardest days.

I am not an expert in medicine. I’m not here to give clinical advice. I’m here as a fellow traveler — someone who has faced the fear, the uncertainty, the exhaustion... and is still finding ways to move forward with compassion and hope.

If you’re reading this and feeling overwhelmed, let me say this clearly:
You are stronger than you know.
You don’t have to do this alone.
There are people who understand.

In the weeks ahead, I hope you’ll join me as we talk about all the pieces of this complicated, beautiful, heartbreaking journey.
Let’s walk it together.

Until next week!