The Village That Holds Us: Gratitude for the Ones Who Show Up
There is a quiet myth so many of us carry around, tucked between the permission slips, appointment reminders, and endless to-do lists: the myth of the solo caregiver. The idea that we should be able to do it all, the therapies, the advocacy, the research, the daily life stuff, without slowing down or needing anyone. We tell ourselves, “If I just organize better… if I push a little harder… if I can hold it together one more day…”. But the truth is simple and a little tender: none of us were meant to do this alone. Even when caregiving feels isolating, even when it feels like the whole weight sits on your shoulders, we are not built to be a one-person village.
Some days, support comes in big, obvious ways: a therapist who celebrates every inch of progress with you, a teacher who who takes a few extra minutes to share an extra update about your child, a friend who shows up with coffee without being asked. Other days, it is something small but deeply human: a stranger holding the door when your hands are full, a message from someone online who “gets it,” or the quick text that says, “How are you doing today?”. These tiny moments can be lifelines. Not because they fix everything, but because they remind us that we are held, that someone is paying attention. Take a moment and notice the people who have been your steady hands this year. The ones who show up quietly, consistently, or unexpectedly. Naming them is a kind of gratitude in itself.
Gratitude does not erase the hard parts. Sometimes there are empty seats where we hoped for support. Sometimes the people we assumed would be here are not. And that kind of loneliness has a weight of its own. It is okay to grieve that. It is okay to feel both the thankfulness for what is and the ache for what is not. Caregiving is full of contradictions, and holding both gratitude and grief does not make you ungrateful. It makes you human.
If your village feels thin or scattered, you are not alone in that either. Community can be rebuilt, slowly, imperfectly, with little steps that feel vulnerable at first. Maybe it starts with joining a parent support group or connecting with other families through therapy centers. Maybe it is reaching out to someone at school who seems like they are walking a similar road. Maybe it is saying the words most of us avoid: “I could really use some help.” And I will be honest, this is something I perpetually struggle with. Even when someone asks, “Do you need anything?” I reflexively say no, as if accepting help is an inconvenience to the world. Meanwhile there are always those seemingly tiny things, grabbing a grocery item, picking up a prescription, helping with a school drop off, that would feel wildly helpful if I let myself say yes.
Letting people into both the beauty and the struggle is how a village grows. Not out of perfection, but out of shared humanity. As you move through this season, take a quiet minute to ask yourself: Who has held you this year? And if someone comes to mind, consider reaching out. Send a message, speak a thank you, or simply let them know they matter. Caregiving is hard, holy work, and connection is the heart of how we survive it and how we find joy inside it.
We do not do this alone. We never were meant to.
