My background in education taught me that everything we do should be intentional and thoughtfully planned — but also that even the best plans can fall apart. That reality translates directly into caregiving. You prepare, you adapt, and some days still descend into chaos. I've learned to accept both the victories and the losses, and when something doesn't work, you try again with a different approach the next day.

Working in education also gave me a strong foundation in accommodations and modifications — understanding that support should be individualized so everyone can access what they need. In caregiving, that mindset becomes essential. It's constant problem-solving: adjusting communication, rethinking routines, and asking questions like Why didn't that work? What was the trigger? How can I make this easier next time?

The hardest lesson I've had to unlearn is that growth doesn't look the same. In the classroom, I had the privilege of watching children gain skills, build independence, and move forward. With Alzheimer's, the progression moves in the opposite direction. No matter how many supports or strategies I put in place, there are times when it still isn't enough. Accepting that — while continuing to show up with patience and compassion — has been one of the most challenging and humbling parts of this journey.

That first video — the "Red Vine video" — came from a place of pure frustration. I was sitting in my car, overwhelmed and emotional, really just yelling into the void without expecting anyone to hear me.

When I look back at that version of myself, I see someone who was exhausted, heartbroken, and stepping into so much unknown. If I could talk to her now, I would tell her that she's not as alone as she feels — that there is an entire community of caregivers out there who are going to find her, stand beside her, and support her in ways she never expected.

I would tell her that everything she thought made her "too much" — her background as an educator, her love of performing, her tendency to overshare — would actually become the very things that help others feel seen and understood.

Balancing motherhood and caregiving is something I'm still learning in real time. Some days feel manageable, and others feel completely overwhelming — and I've learned to be honest about that. As my mom's condition progresses, caregiving has become more demanding, and at the same time, I'm parenting two young children, including my son, who was recently diagnosed with high functioning autism and is now in intensive therapy.

There are days when my mom needs more of me, and days when my kids do. It's a constant shift, and I don't always get it right. What grounds me is knowing that my children come first — but that doesn't make the balancing act any easier.

Therapy has been an essential part of that. I'm a strong advocate for caregivers prioritizing their mental health, because this role can be incredibly isolating and emotionally demanding. That's actually inspired me to begin writing a children's book to help explain memory loss in a way kids can understand. It's still in the early stages, but it's something I hope to bring to life one day.

My relationship with dark humor really began after my father passed away unexpectedly from cardiac arrest when I was 29. At the time, my brother and I were suddenly responsible for managing his estate. I was navigating deep grief while also handling responsibilities I never imagined facing at that age.

In the middle of all of that, humor became a coping mechanism. My dad loved to laugh — he was always making jokes, pulling harmless pranks, and filming us as kids on his old VHS camera. His silly home videos are what inspire me today. I imagine that wherever he is, he is laughing at my TikToks and cheering me on.

In caregiving, there are moments that feel overwhelming, and sometimes laughter is the only thing that keeps you from breaking. It doesn't take away the grief, but it creates space to breathe within it. In many ways, humor has become my lifeboat — helping me navigate both the sudden loss of my dad and the long goodbye I'm experiencing with my mom.

I believe the most critical resource missing for dementia caregivers is education. We're taught how to navigate so many major life transitions — how to have children, file taxes, buy a home — but almost nothing about caring for aging parents. And yet, for many of us, this is an inevitable part of life. It raises the question: why isn't this a more open, normalized conversation?

Beyond that, one of the greatest challenges caregivers face is the profound isolation and emotional toll of the role. Many people relocate, leave careers, or completely reshape their lives to care for a loved one. In the process, their identity, goals, and sense of normalcy can shift dramatically.

I've spoken with countless caregivers who are supporting not just one, but two aging parents. They are exhausted, overwhelmed, and deeply alone. What they need isn't just acknowledgment — they need accessible, reliable respite care. They need trained professionals who can step in, even briefly, so they can rest, reset, and return to their role with some sense of sustainability.

To me, a "Goddess" is someone who is powerful… but also deeply, perpetually exhausted. So "radical self-care" has to be realistic — it has to exist within the chaos, not outside of it. The time after my kids go to sleep is sacred. My husband and I move through the day like a well-oiled machine so that, by night, we can finally exhale.

I've learned that self-care doesn't have to be extravagant to be meaningful. Small rituals can be just as powerful.

Most of the "hacks" that have truly made a difference for me haven't come from professionals — they've come from other caregivers. I can't take credit for them. The caregiving community is an incredible source of wisdom, and so many of us are learning in real time from one another.

One of the biggest misconceptions about memory loss is that caregiving is always a choice — or even a calling. The reality is far more complex. Caring for someone with dementia can be deeply traumatic, and it doesn't always look like the peaceful, tender moments people imagine.

This isn't a situation where we simply coexist — where she watches her shows and I bring her coffee. Our reality is much harder. It can involve daily power struggles, verbal conflict, and, for some families, even physical aggression. There is nothing polished or picturesque about memory loss. It is raw, unpredictable, and, at times, gut-wrenching.

There is also a quieter layer of grief that people don't often talk about — the loss of what could have been. My children are growing up alongside this reality. Dementia doesn't just change one relationship — it reshapes an entire family, across generations. That's why I choose to show up authentically on my TikTok platform. I'm not here to soften or glamorize this experience. I'm here to tell the truth.

I truly don't know what I would do without my husband, Will. He shows up for me in every way he can — even if that simply means sitting beside me while I fall apart. We've become a unit in the truest sense — navigating parenthood while also facing my mother's decline. Caregiving can absolutely be a make-or-break experience for a marriage. But when you have a strong foundation, it can also deepen your connection in ways you don't expect.

We're also fortunate to have our babysitter Kristen, who loves our children like her own. Her support has been essential. And, like so many parents, our children's bedtime is sacred. When the house finally quiets, we get to reconnect — just the two of us.

When someone finishes one of my TikTok lives or reads my posts, I want them to walk away knowing they are not alone. I want them to get a quick laugh from my silly moments, a tiny spark of joy in an otherwise exhausting day. I want them to feel seen, heard, and understood.

Whether I'm sharing practical advice or simply validating their feelings, my goal is to reach caregivers who are tired, isolated, and navigating impossible circumstances. I want them to know that someone is truly listening.

The comments that remind me why I keep going often say things like: "I feel less alone." "This is so relatable." "Your post made me spit out my coffee." "Thank you so much for saying this."

Those moments are everything. They're proof that even in the hardest days, connection, empathy, and a little humor can make a real difference.