What Fills Your Cup? Self-care is a Vital Ingredient of Caregiving

What Fills Your Cup? Self-care is a Vital Ingredient of Caregiving

There’s no doubt about it: caregiving is exhausting. By definition, exhaustion means being without reserve. Exhaustion reduces your ability to adapt, respond kindly, anticipate another person’s needs, and feel good about yourself while doing so. Exhaustion is the depletion of your physical, mental, emotional, psychological, financial, or spiritual reserves. When reserves get too low, it can feel impossible to continue.

Thus, combating exhaustion is one of the most important aspects of caregiving. The approach I recommend embraces the current buzzword: "self-care." Simply put, self-care means taking time to replenish your energy. Because caring for a loved one with dementia can quickly drain a caregiver's reserves, leading to feelings of distress, resentment, regret, and depletion, self-care is not only a crucial form of self-defense; it’s an essential strategy for the dementia journey.

Just as airplane announcements instruct you to put your oxygen on before helping others, it is not only important but necessary for family dementia caregivers to take care of themselves as a matter of priority on the dementia journey. Self-care is not a back burner or side order of business. Rather, it is a front-and-center, primary task of caregiving. The truth is that the well-being of a loved one with dementia depends almost entirely on the well-being of their principal caregiver.

As a caregiver myself, of family dementia caregivers, and now, a family member with a diagnosis of Alzheimer’s disease, the heavy burden of this journey bears down on me daily. I, too, must ensure that my cup is full so that I can remain present, patient, loving, kind, and generous with those I serve.

One important way that I fill my cup is by looking at and listening to art. Art has always been a refuge for me, allowing me to retreat from the day-to-day realities of life by widening my perspective to that of the collective human experience, one painting or piece of music at a time.

Recently, I traveled to St. Louis, where I listened to the St. Louis Symphony Orchestra and visited the St. Louis Art Museum. Connecting with works by artists from other centuries and decades always puts me back in my body, brings me into the present moment, and refills my cup.

Artists reimagine the world and respond to the suffering around them. For the connection to the human experience art has given me, I wouldn’t trade the hours of my life I’ve spent in art museums for anything. Each time I commune with a piece of art, I feel my heart expand a little bit. I know this witnessing becomes the bedrock of my compassion. Learning about an artist’s particular alchemy, what inspired or influenced their creations, inspires me too. I long ago learned that sensitizing my heart and mind to the experiences of others is the source of my power in helping others. My book, The Arc of Conversation; A How-to Guide for Goals of Care Conversations, Springer 2025, is a testimony to that witnessing and loving.

The reality is that life is challenging and hard. There is certainly no sugar-coating the dementia journey, which is characterized by loss, grief, and bereavement. Self-compassion is a vital caregiver ingredient, and it is perfectly okay to feel all the feelings that come with this journey.

In the wake of my divorce, a dear friend told me, “The only way out is through.” For me, art reduces the isolation I experience from modern life, helps me connect with the reality of love and suffering, and keeps things real.

Here is an assortment of pieces that spoke to me during my time in St. Louis. Which of these speaks to you?

Max Beckmann's “The Sinking of the Titanic,” is a heartbreaking reminder of loss and our capacity to survive nearly anything. I remember being a young girl and hearing my neighbors talk about a mythical place called California. Before arriving in Wyoming, I lived in San Diego for ten years. My heart breaks for the families and communities experiencing such tremendous loss from the raging fires.

Max Beckmann’s “The Bath,” is an intimate, shared moment between a husband and wife, reflecting our humanity in our most vulnerable moments.

Samuel John Peploe’s “Pink Roses in a Vase,” is a momentary and beautiful respite from life’s chaos.

Degas’s “Little Dancer, Age 14,” is full of spit and verve; she never gets old.

Three Greek Amphoras (Click here, Click here, and Click here) dated from the 8th to 5th Millennium BC, are poignant reminders of life’s fragility and brevity.

Kathe Kollwitz’s “Lamentation,” the artist’s response to the death of her friend, Ernst Barlach, is a compassionate homage to the suffering that is part of the human experience.

Eddie Martinez’s “2020 Big BH Grid No. 1,” featuring six different skulls, reminds me of dementia: how every day is a new day and that it can be challenging to know what a loved one with dementia is experiencing.

Joan Mitchell’s “Ici,“ which means “here” in French, reminds me that we never really have control of the present moment. Our lives are but a paint splatter on a very brief canvas. Perhaps there is some colorful consolation amidst that chaos.

Louise Nevelson’s “New Continent,” composed of found objects, reminds me of memory and how each of us is a somehow organized catalog of individual experiences that fray on the dementia journey.

Dvorak’s Symphony No. 9, “From the New World,” is an optimistic masterpiece full of hope and resilience.

In terms of self-care, the devil is not in the details. It matters not what form your self-care takes; what matters is that it touches your humanity. Art touches my humanity in a way that makes me feel reconnected with my humanity and that of others. What touches your humanity?

If you haven’t asked yourself this question in a while, stop and put pen to paper with this prompt:

What fills your cup?

Then, set about to incorporate a little bit of that magic into your life the next opportunity you get.