The Hidden Weight of Care — When Love Feels Heavy

A weathered note, folded and tucked away, emerges from the pages of an old book, hinting at forgotten messages or secret memories hidden within its creases.

It started with a folded note—one I wasn’t meant to find.

Late one night before an exam, I discovered a small, handwritten note tucked inside an old, hand-me-down exam book. The words were delicate, almost trembling like they’d been written by someone trying desperately to hold it all together for far too long.

The note spoke of a child named Ash(i). The caregiver perhaps a mother or father, I couldn’t tell—was pleading for someone else to step in. Not because they didn’t care. But because they were breaking.

I stopped and read it again. And again.

Was this really a caregiver’s quiet cry for help? Was there a crisis? Or was this just life, quietly fraying at the edges? Had this been written during the pandemic… or was this what life had been like all along?

Behind those few lines, I saw something I’ve often observed in homes, communities, and families—the silent burnout of the one who stepped in.

Sometimes they’re a grandparent. Sometimes, an auntie, an older sibling, a single parent. Sometimes, even a neighbor. And sometimes… they never chose the role. They just became “the one” by default because someone had to.

But who checks in on them?

Caring for others, especially for children, can be deeply lonely. Especially in our part of the world, where family and friends often “do what’s needed” without ever asking, At what cost? How much can one person hold?

We don’t talk enough about what it does to a person to constantly hold space for someone else’s pain while ignoring their own. To keep showing up when they’re scared, sleep-deprived, or silently grieving. To be everything for someone who needs them while feeling like they’re falling apart inside.

And that kind of strain doesn’t always look like struggle. Sometimes, it looks like someone being “strong,” “reliable,” or “selfless.” But if you pause long enough… you’ll see the frayed edges. You’ll hear the fatigue in their breath. You’ll catch the sadness behind the smile. You’ll notice the pain in their eyes.

And if we’re not careful, we’ll miss it entirely.

Who is tending to the caregiver’s heart? Who’s making space for their fear, their fatigue… their guilt?

Do we notice the caregivers around us—the ones quietly carrying emotional weight they never asked for?Do we walk with them as they navigate feelings they may have buried or dismissed?

Some signed up for the role. Others didn’t. Many show up with full hearts… but empty tanks. That matters.

Because children don’t just need shelter, education, or protection. They need emotionally safe adults—people who can stay present, regulate their own emotions, and connect even when things get hard. But a caregiver who’s stretched thin, unsupported, or silently grieving can’t always offer that. Not because they don’t care. But because they’re human.

Yet, these caregivers often go unseen. Their labor gets labeled as duty. Their pain goes unnamed. Their “yes” is assumed to be forever.

But here’s the truth: A nervous system in survival mode can’t create safety for someone else. We must stop romanticizing resilience when what someone really needs is relief.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned through years of listening and watching, it’s this: People rarely break down because they’re weak. They break down because they’ve been holding too much for too long—alone.

So, let me ask you:

• Who in your life is always holding it together for everyone else?

• Who’s raising someone else’s child, carrying a load they never asked for?

• Who’s showing up… but maybe barely?

And if you notice them—how can you hold them, even just a little?

A meal. A call. A kind word. Sometimes intentional care looks like a warm meal or a cup of tea. Sometimes it looks like calling someone in instead of calling them out. Sometimes, it means giving them permission to say, “I can’t do this anymore,” without shaming them for it.

Sometimes it’s sitting quietly beside them, letting them vent without judgment. Or offering to watch the kids for a few hours while they rest, cry, or just breathe. Gifting them therapy sessions. Or simply being a listening ear. Helping with paperwork, groceries, homework, even a plumbing issue—the little things that pile up. Checking in with a real, “How are you doing?”—and then actually waiting for the real answer.

And my personal favorite—asking, “What do you need right now?” Not in general. But right now.

Because we don’t heal in isolation. And children don’t thrive in burnout zones.

They need emotionally safe adults. And emotionally safe adults need safe spaces, too.

So maybe the question isn’t just “Who’s taking care of the child?” Maybe it’s also, “Who’s caring for the one holding the child?”

If You’re a Caregiver—by choice, by circumstance, or by community—this is for you:

You’re allowed to say it’s too much. You’re allowed to ask for help. You’re allowed to feel all of it—the love, the weight, the tenderness, the frustration. They can coexist.

That note I found—it was never meant for public eyes. But its message is one we all need to see:

We can’t care well for our little ones if we don’t care for those who hold them.

A Gentle Invitation

Take a moment today to check in on a caregiver you know. Be their safe space. And if you are a caregiver—reach out. Let’s stop doing this alone.

If this resonates with you or you know someone carrying a quiet weight, we’re here to listen. Reach out to us at OpenHearts Counseling & Therapy. Because care shouldn’t be a burden you bear alone.