When Well-Being Isn’t the Goal: The Unspoken Weight of Caregiving and Grief.
Have you ever cared for someone through a long illness? Or lost someone who shaped your world?
I’ve been there—walking through the tender, exhausting, heartbreaking reality of caregiving and grief. And even with all the tools we teach about happiness and well-being, some moments stretch far beyond any practice or framework.
Because sometimes, well-being isn’t the goal. Sometimes, it’s just getting through the day.
In happiness studies, we often talk about flourishing—building meaning, joy, and emotional strength. But what about when joy feels out of reach? When you’re not trying to flourish, you’re just trying to breathe?
Caregiving and grief are deeply human experiences. Quietly heroic. Often invisible. They don’t follow a timeline or respond to self-care checklists. And yet—they’re not outside the human experience. They are the human experience.
This post is for anyone who’s in it. And anyone who wants to show up better for someone who is.
The Truth: Caregiving and Grief Transcend the Wellness Conversation
In happiness studies, we explore how meaning, relationships, and emotional richness contribute to a full life. But caring for someone through illness, or grieving someone you’ve lost, isn’t about optimizing for happiness. It’s about showing up with love, devotion, and heartbreak. It’s about staying—when everything inside you feels like it’s breaking.
And here’s something that’s often misunderstood: You might still be self-aware. You might still be doing the things—exercising, meditating, eating nourishing meals, getting fresh air, journaling. You might still show up. And those things do help. They keep the wheels turning. They are acts of self-preservation in the midst of chaos.
But that doesn’t mean the emotional and physical toll disappears. Because grief doesn’t care if you’ve meditated that morning. And caregiving is still a full-body marathon, even if you made time for a walk.
If You Are a Caregiver or Grieving: Gentle Reminders
You don’t need to be okay. But you do deserve support. Here are a few things that might help:
Feel it all. Rage, gratitude, guilt, numbness, exhaustion—there is no “right” way to grieve or care.
Take micro-breaks. A deep breath. A shower. A stretch. Five minutes outside. These tiny pauses matter.
Accept help. Let others cook, drive, clean, sit with you. It’s not weakness.
Drop the performance. You don’t need to be strong all the time. You just need to be real.
Let your habits be flexible. Meditation might turn into lying still. A workout might become a walk. It all counts.
Reach out to professionals. Therapists, grief counselors, support groups, chaplains, spiritual advisors—having someone to witness your experience without judgment can make all the difference.
Science is on your side. Research shows that naming and sharing your emotions helps regulate them—calming the nervous system and supporting healing.
Find small ways to honour your love. Light a candle. Tell their stories. Savour memories. Wear their sweater. Rituals of remembrance can anchor you in love when everything else feels untethered.
Grief can sharpen emotions. You might feel more sensitive, guarded, or mistrustful. Be gentle—with yourself and others.
Trust your instincts. Advocating for someone you love takes courage. Ask questions, speak up, and follow your gut.
Resist the urge to ask “Why them?” It’s natural to question why suffering happens to the people we love—but those questions rarely bring peace. Try to shift from “why” to “how”—How can I love them through this? How can I care for myself while I do?
If You Love Someone Who Is Grieving or Caregiving: How to Truly Show Up.
Most people want to help—they just don’t know how. Here’s what actually makes a difference:
Say something. “I’m here.” “I don’t have the right words, but I see you.” Silence can feel like abandonment.
Offer something concrete. “I’m bringing you a dinner over?” is better than “Let me know if you need anything. Or
“I’ll come by and walk the dog tomorrow..”
“I’ll take the kids out Saturday so you can rest.”
“I’m sending a care package—text me if you’re craving anything specific.”
“I just dropped off your favourite coffee on the porch—no need to talk, just love you.”
Don’t ask surface-level questions. They may come from care, and if it is all you can do, then do it, but it can miss the mark. Instead try:
“How are you feeling today?”
“What’s this been like for you lately?”
“Would it help to talk, cry, or just sit in silence?”
“What’s something that’s brought you a tiny bit of peace this week?”
Check in again (and again). Grief and caregiving don’t wrap up at the funeral or diagnosis—months later, they’re still carrying the weight.
Don’t disappear unless they ask. “Giving space” can unintentionally feel like abandonment. Gentle texts, porch drop-offs, notes in the mailbox—keep showing up unless they specifically request time alone.
Don’t try to fix it. This isn’t about silver linings.
Honour their capacity. They may not have energy to reply, talk, or meet. That’s okay—keep your love steady, without pressure or expectation.
A Note on Empathy, Compassion, and Sympathy
In times of grief and caregiving, what people need most isn’t sympathy—it’s empathy and compassion. Sympathy says, “I feel sorry for you.” Empathy says, “I feel this with you.” And compassion goes one step further: “I’m here, and I want to help ease the weight.” True support comes not from fixing the pain or avoiding it, but from being willing to sit beside it. To listen without trying to solve. To witness without needing to compare. It’s in these small, human acts of presence that real healing begins.
A Final Thought
Caregiving and grief are love in its rawest form. They aren’t detours from life—they are life. And while they may not look like happiness from the outside, they hold a different kind of beauty: depth, meaning, devotion.
With wholebeing happiness we teach that real well-being is not the absence of pain—it’s the presence of meaning. And sometimes, that meaning is forged in the hardest, most human places.
If you’re there now, I see you. If you love someone who is, thank you for walking beside them. And if you’re wondering whether any of this counts as “well-being”—it does. Because to love through suffering, and to keep showing up, is one of the most courageous things a human can do.