Cultivating Caregiver Wellness
In August, as summer begins to exhale its last full breath, the world around us slowly starts to quiet. The heat lingers, but the light subtly shifts. Gardens begin to dry. Cicadas sing their steady chorus. Nature gives us signs that change is near.
And in this seasonal in-between, there is an invitation: to stretch yourself.
Grief, in its truest form, is not a problem to be solved or a wound to be quickly bandaged. It is a sacred unfolding, an experience of love’s deepest cost. It can feel raw and relentless—like waves crashing against the shore of our very being. And in those crashing moments, it’s easy to feel like we’re unraveling. That we are completely, utterly alone.
But grief, while deeply isolating, also carries within it a quiet truth: we are meant to be held.
Every part of the spring season can be a delightful scene dancing in front of us. The new growth is there for the taking, everywhere, watching the results of the softened earth from the melting snow and spring rains. The season beckons a positive emotional response, but when sadness or grief is present, finding the space to bloom can feel like the remaining late frost of the winter, stunting any sign of delight.
Our focus for the month is delight. Delight is defined as “a high degree of pleasure, satisfaction, or joy.” Pleasure or joy when caring for a child with a terminal illness or a medically complex condition can feel like the remaining chilly winter air rushing in from time to time. Finding any delight with this much heaviness are unwanted and unpleasant feelings that intertwine with every moment of care given. The idea of delight may feel distant, even impossible, when exhaustion, sorrow, and worry take up so much space.
While I may not know or understand your pain, I can find lessons in nature that may help. The beauty of spring can resemble grand delight, especially after the baren winter season. The flowering magnolia, the pink of the quince flowers, and the white blossoms of the cherry trees at Hope Grows feel welcoming. However, when we focus on any delight in this space of grief and sadness, it may feel a bit too grand, so we push it aside and continue with the heaviness, feeling cheated out of any delight it can bring.
Where can we nourish and savor moments of delight? At Hope Grows, we have been blessed to be a part of many caregiver stories, sometimes receiving more than we give. In addition to providing support, we engage in the message of the mission, inspiring hope through nature while empowering wellness of mind, body, and spirit. The nature part of the mission teaches about the reciprocal benefits: while nature gives, we receive. This is where true connection, not just in nature, but in our relationships with our care receivers occur. We must be open to not just the giving of care, but the receiving of it as well.
Gardening in spring is challenging. As we pay attention to the changing weather, we find a need to protect the new growth and the blossoms as best we can. We may consider covering the flowering trees as best we can when the night air may be too cold. Our instinct is to protect. I remember a few years ago covering the viburnum tree in the Garden of Hope during a cold snap. The effort and the time it took helped a little to protect the blossoms, but in the end, the decision moving forward was “not to bother again” and let nature takes its course. The message here is that we tried and we can look at our own well-being in this way. Now tending to our own self-care is a bit different than covering a small tree; however, the difficulty of finding the time, protecting, and placing value is real. Cultivating wellness of self may feel like a grand plan that defeats us before we begin, but the key here is to start small.
Spring is so special, and so are you. As the season pulls us out of the deepness of winter, we begin to find small moments of new growth finding the sun and protecting itself during fragile moments. We too can find space in the heaviness of caring for a child with a terminal illness or medically complex condition. One caregiver comes to mind, standing out as someone who looks at the cold rush of winter’s air, and instead of hindering any delight, experiences delightful moments in small ways. Noticing how her child’s eyes light up from a familiar voice, the comfort received from a shared touch, and the quiet presence of love that exists beyond words. I find the spirituality and faith of this caregiver worthy of delight. She was able to engage little by little with Hope Grows services and then eventually an overnight stay at the Iris Respite House. She found quiet space where beauty, love, and presence exist, despite the rush of chilly air in her changing climate.
In this experience, I believe the message for delight is to capture the good, not the bad. Moments of grace do not remove the sorrow, but they offer a breath within it. Try to find grace in the way your child’s hand feels in yours, in the rhythm of their breathing as they rest, in the way light filters through the window onto their face. Or it might be in the kindness of a nurse who truly sees you, in a deep inhale of fresh air when you step outside, in the way a favorite scent or texture momentarily eases the tension in your body. Another small moment is allowing yourself time to breath, leaning into support, or acknowledging the depth of what you carry.
Capturing the good does not mean pretending the bad is not there. It means allowing the small, good moments to matter—to be noticed, to be felt, even if just for a few seconds. Maybe write them down in a notebook, whisper them in gratitude before bed, or simply let yourself linger in them when they happen. Just as in nature, capture the spring blossoms in small moments of delight. While the chilly air is real, I suggest choosing to notice the beauty in front of you. As fleeting as it might be, “nature is one place we can surrender all control.”
Tending to your own well-being in this space might look different than it does for others. It is not about forcing joy but recognizing that even in sorrow, there can be moments of grace. Those moments, however small, can feel like life is whispering to you. Start with “just 10 minutes” at a time – such an honest, raw way to frame pleasant moments – because when life is this heavy, sometimes that is all you can hold, “just 10 minutes.” Grace makes room for delight—not as something forced or artificial, but as something quiet and real.
Connect in the delight of the reciprocal relationship!
Written by Lisa Story, MSCP, LPC, CT
Founder & Clinical Director
The month of February seems to lend itself to moments of deep breathing. Research shows that mindful deep breathing practices elicit balance and transform stress into peace. James Nestor, the author of “Breath” writes about the new science around the lost art of breathing. I truly find the book fascinating and worthy of the reading time. His research shows that no matter what we eat, what our body size, the exercise we accomplish, and/or our age, none of it matters if we do not breathe properly.
Inhaling and exhaling of breath is something we do instinctually about 25,000 times a day. James goes on to say in his book that humans have lost the ability to breathe correctly, partly due to the bone structure of our skull being smaller in size than our historic ancestors. In the book, I found the studies of implementing different methods of breathing intriguing, especially the studies with athletes.
The athlete studies resulted in better stamina and exertion during high performance sports when proper breathing techniques were applied. I bought a second copy of James Nestor’s book for my oldest grandson, an exceptional athlete, so that he can learn how to apply breathing techniques. He took it to heart, learned and applied it. I can always tell when he applies the breathing techniques, evidenced by his athletic performance and the color of the redness of his face.
On another note of moments of needing deep breaths, I ended the month of January celebrating and honoring the life of two people. One at the age of 80 and the other at the age of 38. Both shocking nonetheless, both deaths took my breath away. As a licensed counselor and certified thanatologist specializing in grief and loss, I know that when the initial news of a loss is heard, one of our first responses is to try and make sense of the death, evidenced by the question, “how did the person die?” We then begin to reflect on the person’s life and what the person meant to us. In most cases, we attend a service where friends and family gather to provide a community of support and an exchange of sharing and love. With these two recent deaths, shock and confusion were the common reaction due to the nature of the death: one being from a fall and the other from suicide, respectively. Deep breaths were definitely needed as we honored and memorialized them both.
In moments of stress, we either hold our breath or shallow breathe. The transition of breathing properly resumes eventually with a big deep breath inhaled. I relate this transition of breath with winter stillness; it is in that transition of breath that we can find calm and peace, even when we’re yearning for something else.
This transition reminds me of a word I recently learned, Gluggavedur! It is an Icelandic word meaning “window-weather,” which refers to the sort of weather best observed from your window. If we think about watching a storm from the warmth and safety of inside our home, we transition from the severity of the storm to the calm feeling of being protected from it.
As grief hits us unexpectedly, like the unwanted groundhog in the garden, we can apply the practice of window-weather. This mindful way of thinking about grief as an unwanted storm puts a safe distance from it. From this safe distance, the emotion is viewed more objectively, creating a calmer and clearer mind. This helps us to observe the pain and sadness as it rises and falls, feeling protected at the same time.
So, the next time the high stakes of emotions surface, remember the phrase Gluggavedur and, since the groundhog saw its shadow and predicts six more weeks of winter, think about transitioning to “window-weather” to help with the Ying and Yang of the weather and the onset of cabin fever.
And finally, think about the relatable practice of essential oils and symbolism of flowers. Roman Chamomile, the essential oil pick, is known for its calming and soothing properties, making it an excellent companion for February’s focus. It lends itself to an invitation for “window-weather” as it invites moments for pausing, breathing, and embracing stillness. The flower pick, Boston Fern, is a lush, vibrant plant that symbolizes purity, renewal, and vitality. Even in the stillness of emotion, grief, or winter, the act of taking moments to breathe lies in its role as both a natural air purifier and a symbol of life.
Until the winds blow in March, Happy Window-Weather!
Lisa Story, MSCP, LPC, CT
Founder & Clinical Director
THIS CLASS HAS BEEN CANCELED AND MAY BE RESCHEDULED FOR A LATER DATE
With grief and loss comes uncertainty and doubt. Join us in learning that our identity and personality exist beyond grief. You’ll arrange a floral bouquet to take home and connect with the symbolism of flowers and nature to help find joyful moments in your journey of grief. By using flowers and its symbolism to find those joyful moments, “flowers” become a path to specific roles in healing.
Attendees must be willing to work with flowers in and from nature. Walking through the healing gardens, (if able, but not necessary) is also part of the class.
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The Joyful Grief & Loss Classes at Hope Grows are part of an educational and supportive program that promotes the concept that while grief can be painful, it can also present moments of joy. Learn about the emotional pain of grief by way of tactile activities to process and let go of difficult moments and feelings. While building a sense of community, the journey becomes finding moments of ease and glimpses of the beauty that can surface. Each class builds upon the other; however, it is not necessary to attend all.
Join Hope Grows and Stray Cat Studios for a unique clay class that is both healing and enjoyable as we process our loss and understand the important concepts of memorializing. The tactile activity of creating and making a memorial
wind chime will serve as a practical and beautiful piece to honor our loved ones.
Suggested donation of $65
CLICK HERE TO REGISTER
**12 participants max**
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The Joyful Grief & Loss Classes at Hope Grows are part of an educational and supportive program that promotes the concept that while grief can be painful, it can also present moments of joy. Learn about the emotional pain of grief by way of tactile activities to process and let go of difficult moments and feelings. While building a sense of community, the journey becomes finding moments of ease and glimpses of the beauty that can surface. Each class builds upon the other; however, it is not necessary to attend all.
