I thought it was just my dad. How hard could it be? He was still driving, still living life. Just some memory issues. I'd move back home, save on rent, and chill.

I walked into a pit. A dark void that flipped me upside down and then knocked me flat. I didn't see it coming.

The hardest part was dealing with my misconceptions of the disease. I didn't know how to communicate with the dementia and to talk with my dad without insulting the integrity of both. I learned to respect the beast, the monster called Alzheimer's dementia, and I had to unlearn what I thought I knew of dignity.

I battle burnout daily. How I manage it is up to my own resources and training. Being in a condition to handle the hardships and the burdens as they fall along the path. Listen, I had many faults that I carried before becoming a caregiver to my dad. I am still digging out from those circumstances.

I have worked hard to overcome my shortcomings and my mistakes. I am not perfect, nor do I have it altogether. I am a work in progress, manifesting each day with a little grit and spit shine. My caregiver coach called me a knucklehead. She wasn't wrong. I'm stubborn. I had bad habits before Dad ever got sick. I had to break, really crack open — to survive. Then I had to break again to learn I wasn't supposed to be a hero. Just present. Just honest.

My day begins early. Hours before my dad wakes up. I drag myself out of bed — that alone takes effort, defying gravity, one foot then the other. I'll try to do a few chores before I take a walk or attend to a personal appointment. There are times when I may have to clean up a mess from the night due to my dad's aim into the toilet basin. I may do a quick meal prep or write out a list of tasks for our Home Care Aide. I try to practice some self-care. Once a week, I attend a virtual support group in the quiet of the morning. All before 9 am.

Once the aide arrives, I'll head off to work. I work as a Home Care Aide myself. I support other families with levity and compassion, just like my own aides do for my family and me. After work, I may hit the gym, visit a friend, take in the day, or just be at peace, humming in meditation.

Once I get back home to relieve the aide, I get to sit with my dad. Hold his hand and ask how his day is progressing. I get to be a son for a moment. Not a family care partner, just briefly — before I prepare for the evening duties. If weather and light permit, we will get in an evening walk through the neighborhood. One last question I ask my dad is "what is he grateful for?" He will respond with life. Each day is different. We meet our dad where he is — focusing on what he can still do, not what the disease stole.

I cannot point to one moment. Dad has always been a teacher to me. He taught us everything he knew. From plumbing, woodworking, car repair, and now, how to care for him. A dementia practitioner said, the experts are those living with the disease. I had to put down my ego and adjust my attitude. I had to begin to listen to what my dad needed.

My dad is teaching me about dignity, agency, and self-awareness. My dad is teaching me how to see him home. Not as a patient. As a person.

I won't sugarcoat this. Caregiving is a mental health crisis we don't talk about. Our machismo? That's the worst pain in our own ass.

I bailed on my own mental health. I sat down and wrote that letter to end it. I wanted to silence myself. I wanted the pain to stop.

The rumination, that endless loop of failure and fear — it strangles you. I have been gutted more times than I can count.

But here's what I learned: my limits get tested every day. Some days I pass. Some days I don't. I survive by hunting for sparkles. A laugh. A hug at the end of the night from my dad. A single smile that perks up. I add those together. That's my gratitude. That's how I stay in the light.

Three tools have made a real difference for us:

I balance with a thread and needle. One wrong move and the whole thing unravels. I'm stitching together two versions of myself: the son who loves him and the caregiver who can't afford to break. Most days, the thread holds. Some days, I have to start over.

It is not easy to compartmentalize this strategy. It takes a lot of patience and practice to hold both roles together. As I have said before, I am a work in progress.

It's not unnatural for a man to be a caregiver. We've always been providers — not just of money, but of presence. Of steadiness.

This is a brave choice. Not because it's heroic, but because it's honest. Real self-mastery starts when you care for someone else. Your ego will fight it at first. Then, if you're lucky, your ego will thank you.

Run.

I mean that. Run to your doctor. Run to a therapist. Run to a support group. Find your tribe before you need them. Denial is a hell of a drug. Don't be timid like me.

And also — run to your loved one. If you can't run, walk. Crawl. Roll. Just be there.

Self-care isn't selfish. My coach drilled that into me: 'Self-care is the best care for those you care for.' Ain't that the truth.

One last thing: Dignity doesn't rob your loved one. Your reaction does. I've failed that. I've been critical. I've stripped dignity away without meaning to. Learn from my regret.

Walk them home. Celebrate every day like it's the last. That's not a slogan. That's how you survive. Be grateful on purpose. Even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard. Show up. That's the whole thing. Just show up.