Anybody who knows me knows that when I grab my power tools and a can of paint, it usually means I’m feeling… Well, all the things—overwhelmed, distressed, hopeful, scared, inspired, maybe even a little rebellious. It’s kind of my version of therapy, a way to process whatever’s swirling in my head.
Now, some people meditate when they feel overwhelmed. Others hit the gym. Me? I start purging closets like I’m trying to outrun my own thoughts.
This past week, I went all in—decluttering, rearranging, and even throwing in a fresh coat of paint. The victim? My office—a space that once served as my 105-year-old grandmother’s bedroom (just six steps from my own, so I could always hear her if she needed me).
Today, the walls hold stories from patients, many who have struggled to care for themselves while caring for others. The shelves hold photos of people I loved and have lost, along with books that I cherish and awards that I have received.
While knee-deep in this purge, I uncovered two treasures that felt like nudges from my grandmother, Nana guiding me toward a reminder I needed to see. One was my KSU Hall of Fame award as a Distinguished Alumni—during the induction ceremony, I was honored for my work in women’s empowerment, entrepreneurship, and caregiving for trauma survivors.
The other? A well-loved, heavily annotated book by Dr. Rachel Naomi Remen, its pages bursting with highlights and scribbled notes that have shaped my awareness of healing and caregiving.
It was as if Nana—whose voice is still the loudest in my head—was reminding me that caregiving, in all its forms, has always been at the heart of who I am. She believed that caregiving wasn’t just something we do; it was a power we hold, a way to shape the world through love, presence, and unwavering commitment to others.
Yep, she really was/is the purest version of the best of humanity. But I digress as I often can do when talking about her. LOL
I found myself sitting in the middle of the floor, rereading the many parts of the book that I had flagged and highlighted—and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the “shattered light.”
She writes about her grandfather’s wisdom: “In the beginning of creation, the light of the universe was shattered into a million, million pieces, and those pieces landed in every corner of existence—inside everything and everyone.”
Her grandfather, a scholar of Jewish mysticism, was teaching the concept of Tikkun Olam, which means “repairing the world.” In Kabbalistic tradition, creation was infused with divine light, but the vessels meant to hold this light shattered, scattering sparks throughout the world.
The spiritual work of humanity is not to wait for a hero or a miracle but to actively seek out and restore these sparks through acts of kindness, compassion, and justice.
Caregiving is exactly that—choosing to repair the world, one small gesture at a time. When we care for others, we are gathering the scattered shards of light and bringing wholeness not only to those we help but also to ourselves.
The world isn’t broken beyond repair—it’s waiting to be pieced back together. And caregiving? It’s the glue.
Every small act of care—whether it’s holding space for someone’s grief, checking in on a friend, or standing up for justice in a world that too often rewards cruelty and self-interest—is like picking up one of those shattered pieces and fitting it back where it belongs.
In a time when so many look the other way, caregiving is an act of defiance—a refusal to accept indifference as the norm and a commitment to restoring dignity and humanity where it has been stripped away.
Dr. Remen also reminds us that healing doesn’t mean fixing. She writes, “Healing may not be so much about getting better as about letting go of everything that isn’t you—all of the expectations, all of the beliefs—and becoming who you are.”
Caregiving allows us to do just that—not just for others, but for ourselves. When we care, we strip away pretense and meet each other as we truly are flawed, human, and deeply connected.
The Quiet Power of Care Over Heroics
We live in a culture obsessed with heroics—the grand, dramatic rescues, the larger-than-life figures who get all the recognition. But real change, real healing, doesn’t come from a single heroic moment. It comes from the people who show up, day after day, in quiet and unglamorous ways.
The real act of courage isn’t about making headlines; it’s about making a difference in ways that often go unseen. The world doesn’t need more heroes. It needs more people willing to care.
In a world where we’re told to hustle, achieve, and push forward, caregiving is a radical act of slowing down and paying attention.
It’s what reminds us that we belong to each other. That even when the world feels fractured and unkind, we have the power to stitch it back together, one act of care at a time.
But caregiving doesn’t just heal others—it heals us too. When we reach out, when we offer support, when we remind someone, they are not alone, we are gathering those scattered shards of light and making something whole again.
And in the process, we remind ourselves of our own resilience, our own ability to heal.
Why Should We Care About Caregiving?
It’s easy to ask—why should we care? In a world that tells us to focus on ourselves, chase success, and guard our own well-being, why should we extend that care to others?
The answer is, caring for others is not a “good to do thing”—it’s a necessity. It strengthens our communities, our relationships, and even our sense of purpose. In the absence of it, depression, anger and isolation follows.
Science backs this up. Acts of caregiving fire up our brain’s reward systems—proof that we’re wired to connect. Mirror neurons help us feel what others feel, linking us in ways we don’t always understand.
Caring for others actually changes our brain chemistry, making us more resilient, more connected, and, honestly, just better and more Real versions of ourselves.
Every time we choose to care, we reinforce something deeper than connection—we reaffirm our shared humanity.
In a world that often feels fragmented and indifferent, caregiving is a powerful act of defiance against isolation. It reminds us that healing isn’t just about fixing what’s broken; it’s about showing up, standing beside each other, and proving that none of us have to navigate this life alone.
Healing isn’t about fixing what’s broken—it’s about showing up, standing beside each other, and proving that no one should have to navigate this life unseen or unsupported. In a world that often rewards detachment and self-interest and a tendency to look away from suffering, caregiving is a radical healing choice.
It is a declaration that compassion matters, that justice is worth fighting for, and that true healing happens through each other. For every act of cruelty and pain we witness, there are always greater acts of compassion and healing—we just have to see them, choose them, and become them.
Caregiving is the Path to Lasting Change
Caregiving is not just about responding to immediate needs; it is about shaping the kind of world we want to live in. A world where compassion is the foundation, where connection is valued over individualism, and where healing is something we offer each other, not just something we wait to receive.
Finding those treasures in my office wasn’t just about nostalgia. It was a reminder of who I am and what I believe in.
Caregiving isn’t just something I do—it’s part of me. It’s part of all of us.
If you’ve ever held someone’s hand through a hard moment, if you’ve ever listened when someone needed to be heard, if you’ve ever chosen kindness when it would have been easier to walk away—you’re a caregiver.
If you’ve ever spoken up for someone who had no voice, fought for fairness in an unjust system, or refused to look away from suffering, you’re a caregiver, too. And that matters.
Caregiving isn’t just about personal kindness; it’s about standing up, speaking out, and creating a world where compassion is stronger than cruelty.
Why This Matters Now More Than Ever
Today, we honor every caregiver—whether you do it professionally, for family, or in the quiet, everyday ways that never make the headlines. You are seen. You are valued.
As Mahatma Gandhi once said, “The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others.”
So tell me—how do you reconnect with your own light when the world feels heavy? What small acts of caregiving have helped you or someone you love heal? Let’s keep this conversation going.
Because every act of care, no matter how small, is a spark against the darkness—a defiant reminder that kindness has power, that connection with each other heals, and that even in the most painful and difficult moments, we can choose to make the world more just, more compassionate, and more whole.
