This week I experienced both ends of the spectrum: a soaring high and a gut-punch low.

The Low

The day before an important two-hour drive for a meeting, my car battery died. A dead battery. Something so ordinary, so fixable, and yet I completely unraveled. I lost it in a way that surprised me, and honestly embarrassed me. To say I may have lost my shit is an understatement and I am glad no one was here to see this!

I ended up calling Grant, not because he’s “supposed” to fix my problems, but because I didn’t know what else to do. He dropped everything, showed up with lunch, figured out the issue, and followed me to the store so I could get a new battery. He was steady, kind, and selfless and it overwhelmed me.

I didn’t know what to do with that. Because in my head, that was Tom’s job. Tom was the fixer, the one who handled things like dead batteries and broken appliances and all the little hiccups of life. But Tom died, thanks to ALS. And now I’m here, three years later, still trying to figure out how to carry the weight of all the things.

It’s not that I can’t solve problems. I can. I do. But I’m depleted. My imaginary reserve tank still hasn’t refilled, and it is clearly on EMPTY. The truth is, sometimes even the little things break me wide open, because they remind me of all I’ve lost, and of all the ways my life is different now.

What Grant did that day wasn’t just about the car battery. It was about showing up when I felt small, overwhelmed, and fragile. It was about being seen and helped without judgment. That kindness reached a part of me that’s still grieving, still healing, still learning what it means not to carry everything alone.

The High

The high was meaningful. I achieved an advocacy goal I’ve been working toward for years. It is a win on the ALS veteran and caregiver front that, as it comes to fruition, I will share. It felt like proof that the long nights of research and learning VA Directives, the countless calls and emails were worth it. It wasn’t just achieving an advocacy goal; it was solving veteran/caregiver issues in the moment, knowing that caregivers and veterans don’t have to be scared or afraid of what will happen if their needs can’t be met. I can easily put myself in their shoes, I can instantly remember the fear of going it alone. During my caregiver journey, I just wished that someone would or could help me, but at the time, there was very little help for our ALS veteran community. It is an all-consuming fear. One that you feel for yourself and for your veteran. To think Tom’s livelihood and even his life were balancing on me getting services from the VA, well, it’s one of the reasons I advocate.  During that meeting, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be. And you know what, I was.

The Reflection

Grief isn’t linear, and the impact of caregiving doesn’t end when the caregiving ends. The exhaustion, the emptiness, the muscle memory of always being “on”—they linger. Sometimes, a dead battery is more than just a dead battery. It’s a reminder of everything that’s missing in my life, and an opportunity for someone else to step in and show me I am not alone.

The lesson I’m trying to take away is this: it’s okay to celebrate the big wins and still fall apart over the little things. It’s okay to ask for help, even when I wish I didn’t need to. And maybe the hardest truth of all—it’s okay to let someone else show up for me, even though no one will ever replace Tom.

Because maybe, just maybe, part of resilience isn’t about always being strong. Perhaps it’s about letting people love you through the moments when you’re at a low in your life.