If I could give one piece of advice to other men who are caregivers, it would be this: it’s okay to be emotional.

For a long time, I thought being strong meant keeping everything inside. Caregiving taught me that real strength is being honest when things are hard. It’s okay to admit you’re tired, overwhelmed, scared, or grieving. That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.

The strongest men I know aren’t the ones who never show emotion. They’re the ones who keep showing up, even when things are difficult.

My piece of advice is to run. Run to your primary care doctor to reinforce your health. Ask for a referral to a mental health specialist to get prepared for this long journey. Run to an elder-law attorney to learn strategies for your loved one’s affairs.

Run to local community-based organizations like the Alzheimer’s Association. The local Area Agency on Aging for resources nearby. Connect with caregiver resource centers if they’re available. Start building a circle of care around yourself — especially men who don’t follow an instruction manual to the T.

How many times do we skip a step to rush a task and miss the one part that makes all the difference? I did exactly that this weekend repairing our clothes dryer — left a flashlight inside the motor compartment, only to disassemble the whole machine to retrieve it.

Then I work to down-regulate myself so I can participate in the care of my dad. That skill is learned through experience, and through my interactions with a therapist. I’ve probably given a sermon instead of a one-line tip — I hope it helps.

Having been caregiver to three loved ones, and challenged in every measure, I feel you, fellow caregivers. Find moments to appreciate the incredible gift of life, and the gift you are to another’s life.

Go outside and breathe deep. Appreciate the simplicity of the beauty in all the life around you — the sky, the grass, the flowers and trees and all that lives within. Reflect on the miracle of being a part of it. Breathe it all in. Let the breeze take you, to refresh your mind and soul.

In the morning, and again in other parts of your day, indulge — even if only for a few minutes — to put you first.

If I could offer one piece of advice to other men beginning their caregiving journey, it would be this: don’t wait for a crisis to tell someone you need help. Caregiving is a marathon, not a sprint, and pride is a terrible care plan.

One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned caring for my 92-year-old mother is that trying to carry everything yourself isn’t strength — it’s a fast track to burnout. There are days when caregiving feels overwhelming, and that’s normal. The sooner you build a support system and allow others to help, the better caregiver you’ll be for the person who depends on you.

Caregiving has taught me patience, humility, and the importance of showing up, day after day, even when the path forward isn’t clear. None of us are meant to do this alone.

As a husband and long-term caregiver for my wife, I’ve learned that caregiver mental health rarely looks the way people think. Most of us aren’t taking weekend retreats or spending hours at the gym — we’re just trying to make it through today while making sure someone we love is okay. Over the years, a few things have helped me stay in the fight:

Micro-breaks. Five minutes on the porch. A short walk. Sitting quietly before walking back into the house. Small resets add up.

Knowing when to walk away. Not from the person you love, but from the moment — breathe, regroup, and come back calmer than you were.

Breath work and cold plunges. Both help me interrupt the stress cycle and reset my nervous system.

Staying connected. Caregiving is isolating. Having at least one person you can be completely honest with matters.

Telling the truth. A lot of men think they’re supposed to carry it silently. I don’t think that’s healthy.

Focusing on today. I don’t carry the next five years. I focus on the next appointment, the next meal, the next good moment. For caregivers, one day at a time isn’t a cliché — it’s a survival skill.

If I had to boil it down: the moment I stopped pretending I was fine and started being honest about what I was carrying, things got a little lighter. That’s how you stay in the fight for the long haul.