My medical background taught me how to have routines, how to pay attention, and how to notice when something was just a little bit off. After so many years of taking care of other people, you learn to recognize the small changes in someone — the things that may not be obvious to everyone else.

It also taught me to expect the unexpected. In caregiving, you never really know what you're going to walk into, so I always worked as though I was a little bit behind. That way, when something unexpected happened, I had already built in enough room to handle it.

But what my medical background did not prepare me for was being both a caregiver and a wife. That was the hardest part. I knew how to be a caregiver — I had spent decades doing that. But suddenly, the person I was caring for wasn't a patient, it was my husband. There was no medical training that could truly prepare me for that.

I think I draw a lot of my strength from my mom. I was raised on a small farm, and it was just me and my mom. My dad worked outside the house, so there was always something that needed to be done. My mom never really took breaks or naps because there was always another job waiting. The way she raised me taught me how to keep going.

Being diagnosed with MS 11 years ago also taught me something very important: I can't do everything in one fell swoop anymore. I have to break things down, listen to my body, and understand my limitations — while still being there for Joe.

I've had to learn that taking care of myself isn't about doing less — it's about doing what I can, when I can, so I still have enough of myself left to care for Joe.

One of our first victories was simply learning how to maneuver safely in our small home. Our doorways are narrow, and in the beginning, I had to figure out how to rearrange the bedroom so we could move around without constantly running into them.

We have a bed on wheels, which became a big help. I was able to keep Joe's stronger side free so he could turn and pivot. After 30 years of working with people who had a weaker side, I knew how important positioning was.

My son-in-law completely gutted and redid our bathroom for us, so we have a shower that works much better for Joe — with a safety bar and a real plan for getting him in and out safely. Those may sound like small things, but they were huge victories for us.

One of the things that keeps the heart in our home is the little things we share every day. We feed the birds outside, and Joe can sit and look out the back door and watch them. We also have our squirrels — they're almost half tame at this point.

I love plants, so I've brought a lot of plants into our home too. They bring life into the house and give me something I enjoy taking care of. We also listen to music. And then there's Rosie, our cat — she's very loving with Joe, he's the treat man, and then she comes to me when she wants to play.

I think all of those little things — the birds, the squirrels, the plants, the music, and Rosie — give our home a sense of normalcy and joy. They're the little rituals that help keep the heart in our home.

I'm working toward a world where family caregivers don't have to sit in silence and feel invisible. One of the biggest things I want to break is the idea that we always have to say "I'm fine." When someone finally asks a caregiver, "How are you doing?" we almost automatically say, "I'm fine." I want to break that cycle.

We have to make it normal to say, "I'm not fine." Because caregiving can be beautiful, but it can also be maddening. I also want caregivers to know that it's okay to grieve while the person you love is still here. Those feelings don't mean you love your person any less — they're a normal part of caregiving.

I've had to learn how to slow down and take my time. Mornings are slow around here — I get up about an hour and a half before Joe because it takes me longer to wake up and get moving. There are days when I'm exhausted, but I still have Joe to care for, and sometimes the goal is simply to get through the day.

I try to keep extra meals in the freezer — vegetable soup, chicken noodle soup, chili, sloppy joes — things that freeze well, so on a bad day I don't have to stand in the kitchen and cook a whole meal from scratch.

We've maintained our connection because that's how we've always approached our marriage — we've always taken care of each other. For 30 years, when one of us was down or overwhelmed, the other stepped in and picked up the pieces. We never really had to ask each other, we just knew.

We've ridden through a lot of storms together — our dads passed away five weeks apart, my mom's cancer diagnosis, Joe's congestive heart failure, his stroke, and my MS diagnosis. Through all of it, he never wavered, and I was the same for him.

Even now, Joe is still Joe. His dry sense of humor is still there, and so are his little "Joe-isms." Our life changed, but our love didn't. We've never stopped being a team.

I want family caregivers to know that they aren't alone. Our journeys may all look different — different diseases, different ages, different family situations — but there is a common ground among us. We can look at each other and give that little caregiver wink, because we know exactly what the other person is going through.

A lot of the time, we don't need somebody to fix our situation. We just need somebody to hold space for us and listen. You have to find your purpose, and you have to find your people — and you have to find one small win every day and let yourself say, "Yeah, I did that today."

I'm not really good at patting myself on the back. But when I look at everything I've navigated, I think what I'm most proud of is that I kept showing up. I didn't back down. I kept taking care of Joe, and at the same time, I kept going through my own challenges without giving up on the life we were still building together.

And somewhere along the way, I found my voice. I went from simply taking care of Joe to realizing that there are millions of other family caregivers struggling too — and I started using my voice for something bigger than myself.

Some of the most helpful things have been simple pieces of equipment that make everyday life safer and easier. A good shower chair was one of the keys to helping Joe bathe safely, and a toilet riser was another simple but important addition.

A lift chair has been a godsend — though I learned an important lesson: research how equipment works in real-life situations, not just when everything is going right. Ours doesn't have a battery backup, and we found that out the hard way during a power outage.

I also recommend reusable bed pads, a small bedside table for the things your loved one needs within reach, non-slip mats for plates, and easy-to-get-on-and-off clothing. My biggest advice to a new caregiver: don't assume you'll know everything you need before your loved one comes home. Start with safety, accessibility, and independence — and keep learning and adjusting as you go.