There are moments in this work that shift something inside you.
You begin with a role.
An occupational therapist.
A support person.
A helper.
And somewhere along the way… the lines soften.
One of our long-time residents recently passed away.
He had become near and dear to my heart — and to my boys, now grown adults.
What began as “someone I work with” slowly became something else.
He became part of our extended story. The real stories, sharing of family stories.
He knew my children by name.
They knew his favorite choices, activities…..
They knew the rhythm of his voice.
They learned to slow down around him.
They learned that presence matters more than perfection.
And I realized something I’ve seen over and over again in this field:
When you care for someone long enough — when you show up consistently, adapt alongside them, celebrate small victories, sit through hard days — something deeper forms.
Not unprofessional, just connection, community and understanding
….acceptance by both.
Not inappropriate.
Human.
In occupational therapy, we talk about participation.
We talk about meaningful activity.
We talk about supporting quality of life.
But we don’t always talk about what happens to us in the process.
The truth is — when you support someone through years of life, you witness their routines, their preferences, their frustrations, their humor, their resilience. You become part of their daily rhythm.
And they become part of yours.
That is not a boundary failure.
That is relational practice.
Caregivers, staff, therapists — we often hold quiet grief when someone passes. It can feel complicated. We weren’t “family”… and yet, we were.
My boys didn’t just see a resident.
They saw a person. Years of being present, even when too young to remember.
They learned compassion not from a lesson — but from proximity.
They learned that family is sometimes built through time and tenderness.
And that is something I will always be grateful for.
To those who work in long-term care, group homes, day programs, hospice, and community settings — this is your reminder:
It is okay that it hurts.
It means you showed up.
It means the relationship mattered.
It means the work was never just a task list.
We often say, “Don’t take it home.”
But the truth is — sometimes the most meaningful work lives quietly in our homes, in our dinner conversations, in the way our children grow more compassionate because of the people we serve.
This resident became part of our extended family — not by blood, but by presence.
And presence is powerful.
Today, I am holding gratitude for the privilege of knowing him.
And I am holding space for all the caregivers who quietly carry both love and loss in this work.
It is sacred.