For the last six months of my grandfather’s life, my mornings had a rhythm: wake up, check on Papa, get him coffee, and make sure he took his medicine. After my grandmother died in September 2024, it was just my Papa and me in the house where I grew up. That’s when I truly stepped into the caregiver role.
When he passed in December 2025, the schedule that had governed my days vanished. I kept listening for him to call my name, needing something. The silence felt wrong.
Now, weeks after his funeral, I’m realizing that I don’t know who I am anymore.
I was Papa’s granddaughter who stayed close to home. I stopped making plans or going on trips. I built my life around being here. I didn’t resent it; I loved him, and I was honored to be there. But now that he’s gone, I don’t know how to be anything else.
Being there for him felt like the most natural thing in the world
I moved back home in July 2022 after a job opportunity brought me back to Chicago. My grandparents were excited. I was the oldest grandchild, the only girl, and — I liked to joke — their favorite.
Within two years of moving back, I lost my grandmother to lung cancer, and my Papa was diagnosed with prostate and bladder cancer. After a short hospital stay in July 2025, he decided against treatment. By November, he was in hospice. That’s when everything changed.
I don’t love calling myself a “caregiver,” because that word feels clinical. I was his granddaughter who loved him. After my Nana died, being there for Papa felt like a badge of honor. I was carrying on her work, caring for the man she’d been married to for 56 years.
I made sure he ate. I helped him get dressed. He was a prideful man who never wanted to ask for help, but in those final months, he had to. I was honored to be the person he could lean on.
My family also helped: My younger brother moved in for the last few months, and my mom was there every day. But the day-to-day care was mostly me.
I stopped going out. I was terrified of not being here if he needed me. My job let me work from home, which I’m forever grateful for.
The ironic thing? Papa kept pushing me to leave. He wanted me to live my life. He was so proud of me. He loved it when I was happy.
Now that he’s gone, I can’t seem to give myself permission to do what he wanted for me.
Now I’m struggling to give myself permission to move forward
I’ve set goals this year: to travel more, rebuild my social life, and live on my own again.
But every time I start planning something, a voice in my head stops me: “How dare you. How can you want to move forward when you just lost someone you talked to every day?”
Friends and family keep telling me I need to get out of the house, but I feel like I’m supposed to keep grieving harder. There’s a fear I can’t quite name. This house has been my safe space, and wanting something different now feels complicated.
I know that’s not what Papa would want — but the guilt is real.
I wish I’d known that caregiving doesn’t mean disappearing
Looking back, I wish I’d known that caring for someone you love doesn’t mean erasing yourself. I should have set small boundaries, like saying yes to more weekend trips, keeping one activity for myself, or asking my family for more help. Those things wouldn’t have made me love Papa less. They might have actually helped me show up better for him.
I wish someone had told me that the “after” would be this complicated — that an identity crisis comes when the purpose that structured your days disappears.
I know what Papa would say. He’d tell me to get out and go. He’d say this house would always be my home, but I didn’t need to stay. He’d push me to find joy, to celebrate, to live.
I just wish I could figure out how to thank him by actually doing what he wanted. I just need to keep telling myself that moving forward isn’t betrayal. It’s honoring everything he wanted for me.
