A Sacred Pause
I'm taking a Sacred Pause After Caregiving, resting after my mom's funeral.
After three years of caregiving and walking my mother home to heaven, the funeral has passed, the guests have gone, and I sit in the quiet stillness of this morning, realizing how much time and energy I devoted to her care.
It’s in this stillness I feel my body and soul finally exhale.
The long nights, constant decisions, always being on call, deep emotional labor, and sacred goodbyes have taken their toll. And now, I’m resting.
Rest is not weakness. It is not giving up. It is not a luxury. It is holy. After years of pouring myself out for someone I love, my heart is tender and worn. I’ve been the steady one—the advocate, the comforter, the manager, the friend. Now is the time to tend to me.
God, who never slumbers nor sleeps, says to you, “Come to Me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). I am weary. And He sees it.
Resting doesn’t mean forgetting. It means honoring. Every quiet moment is a tribute to my mother’s life and the love I carried so faithfully.
Resting is how I begin to heal. It’s how I make space to remember her laughter, to grieve what was complicated, and to rediscover who I am apart from her caregiving.
This season is a bridge between what was and what will be. There’s no rush to cross it. I’m allowed to move slowly. I'm allowed to say no, to sleep longer, to cry mid-sentence, to laugh when memories bubble up. I’m allowed to feel everything—and nothing. This in-between is sacred.
This rest is my reset. It will restore my identity, rebuild my joy, and renew my spirit. I’m taking time to breathe deeply, to write, to walk, to listen to music, to sit in the sunshine. Let others care for me now. Let God hold my brokenness and be reminded that my story is not over.
There will be a time for rebuilding, for dreaming, for stepping into the new. But today? Today is for healing. For remembering. For simply being.
Our caregiving was an act of deep, sacrificial love. Now our resting can be, too. A gift to ourselves, and to the One who calls us beloved.
