There’s a small thing I wish someone had told me sooner in my caregiving days: drink the coffee while it’s hot. I know some of you are thinking, Laurel, you don’t drink coffee. And that’s true, I don’t, but you get the idea.
It sounds like nothing. But if you’ve cared for someone you love, you know it isn’t nothing. You know how a cup of coffee gets poured with the best intentions at 7 a.m. and finally gets sipped, cold, at 11 — if it gets sipped at all. You know how the day fills itself before your feet even hit the floor. Someone needs something. Then someone else. And the little window where you might have done one small thing just for you closes quietly, the way it does most days. And if you are like I was when I was on this journey, you are caught between the children you are trying to raise and an aging parent that you are worried about. Someone will fall through the cracks and it will probably be you-the caregiver.
So here’s my gentle nudge for this week: take the ten minutes. Drink the coffee while it’s still warm. I’m not talking about a spa day. Most caregivers I know would laugh at the idea of a whole free afternoon — it feels about as realistic as a trip to the moon. I’m talking about the small, solo moments. The kind you can actually reach.
Five minutes on the back porch before the house wakes up.
The good chair and one chapter of a book or watching the sunrise.
A slow walk to the mailbox, taking the long way back.
Sitting in the car for a minute after you park, just to breathe, before you carry everything back inside.
These little pockets of time aren’t selfish. I know it can feel that way — like stepping away, even for ten minutes, means you’re dropping a ball you’re not allowed to drop. But here’s what I’ve come to believe: you are not a bottomless well. You are a person. And a person who never refills runs dry, slowly, in ways that are hard to see until you’re already there.
Filling your own cup, even a little, isn’t taking away from the person you love. It’s how you keep showing up for them tomorrow. So give yourself permission. Not someday or when things settle down — because caregiving has a way of never quite settling down. Permission today. Permission this week. Ten minutes that belong to you.
And if the guilt creeps in — because it will, it’s sneaky that way — try trading it for something gentler. You are doing a hard, holy thing. You are allowed to be a whole person while you do it. Whatever your ten minutes looks like this week, a walk, a phone call to a friend, reading a book, I hope you take it. Sit down. Breathe. Let the coffee be warm for once.
You are worth the small moments too.
