Building a fortress of quiet: How I protect my energy as a caregiver

A caregiver’s energy is a rare currency. When we spend it, we’re not doing so in single, large transactions. Instead, we’re making thousands of tiny withdrawals throughout the day.

When someone repeats a question, when we wear a worried expression, when we’re stuck in a repetitive routine, when we get lost in administrative tasks, when we get angry, when we feel worn out and exhausted by the mental load of a medication schedule — all of these activities deplete our energy reserve.

Ever since my mum developed myeloma, I have learned to protect my energy reserves, no matter how small. If I fail to be vigilant, I’ll end up not having anything left for my mum or myself.

Protecting my energy is not a luxury, but a necessity. These days, I regard it as building a fortress of quiet around my spirit. It is a space I successfully shield from the world, a place where I can attend to my own energy. That way, whenever I want to spend some of it, I can do so from a place of love.

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The architecture of a boundary

I do not use bricks and mortar to build this fortress, but rather small and conscious decisions. One example is the quiet “no” I say to any social events I don’t have the capacity to attend. Another is silencing notifications on my phone for at least an hour each day, which helps me create an island of peacefulness amid an ocean of demands. There are also the deep breaths I take before I walk through the door, which give me a moment to transition from the noise of the world outside to the focused quietness of my mum’s care.

These boundaries are not walls I have erected to keep my mum out. These walls exist to keep the chaos at bay. They also allow me to honor the sanctity of this work by preventing me from being fragmented.

The drawbridge of selective connection

A fortress like mine, however, must possess a drawbridge. It can’t be a prison. My drawbridge is lowered for those who know how to enter quietly, like the friend who is kind enough to text, “No need to reply. I was just thinking of you.” Or the neighbor who drops off a meal on the porch without ringing the doorbell.

But my drawbridge will remain raised against the barrage of exhausting but well-meaning demands for updates and the torrent of unsolicited advice that feels like an assault when I’m trying to make decisions amid conflicting medical advice.

The most difficult part of the drawbridge is learning how to operate it — knowing who to allow in and when to keep it raised. It requires trust and confidence in my own intuition that I didn’t know I had.

The peace inside the walls

Inside this fortress, I am learning the art of calmness. It is there, in that defended quietness, that I can once again hear my own thoughts. I can feel frustration, sadness, or even a flicker of joy without observation.

It is there that I am reminded that I am more than just a caregiver; I am a person who needs quiet to listen to my own soul.

This is not selfishness. It is stewardship. I am attending to the source so my spring won’t run dry.

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