You're not burnt out because you're weak. You're burnt out because you've been doing this for so long that "normal" feels like a word other people use.

I know this because I've been a caregiver for 30 years. I started at 11.

And I hate it.

The First Time I Said It Out Loud

I was 14 years old.

I finally got the courage to ask a girl out. She said yes. We were supposed to go to the park after school. She told me she would let me hold her hands.

I couldn't go.

Mom and grandma were both ill at the same time. I was needed at home. Again.

I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, crying, feeling like I was disappearing. I said it: "I hate this shit."

My grandma heard me.

"Don't say hate. It's a strong word. Say dislike."

That made me even madder.

I wasn't allowed to feel what I was feeling. Not even in my own head. Not even when I was alone, crying in the bathroom, watching my childhood disappear in real time.

The girl at the park made up rumors that I was scared to hold her hands, scared to have a girlfriend. I stopped talking to her. I went back into my lonely bubble. That's all I knew.

A claustrophobic maze. A tunnel where you're the only one isolated and no one else can save you.

I wrote a song about it later. Called it "Repeating Hell."

The Guilt Came Next

After the hate comes the guilt.

Every single time.

I'd feel the rage, the resentment, the hatred for what caregiving was doing to my life. Then immediately after, the voice:

"You're a bad person. They need you. How dare you feel this way."

But then I started talking back to that voice.

"Why don't they feel bad for you? So why feel bad for them?"

That's the question that saved me from drowning in guilt.

Society tells you that you should love taking care of your family. Religion tells you that you shouldn't feel this way about your loved ones. The men in my family told me to "man the fuck up, stop that crying, take care of your mom—she took care of you."

But nobody told me what to do when caregiving was killing me.

What I Lost

I sacrificed my dreams. My happiness. My health.

I wanted to be a songwriter. A rapper. A beat maker. A producer.

At 14, while I was canceling dates to take care of my mom and grandma, other kids were:

• Going to the park with girls who wanted to hold their hands
• Playing basketball after school
• Learning instruments, making music, dreaming about their futures
• Being kids

I was riding two buses to dialysis. Learning hospital waiting room schedules. Becoming an expert in medication management before I could legally drive.

If I could go back and tell 11 year old Robert one thing, it would be this:

"This is going to cost you everything. And nobody is going to thank you for it. But you'll survive. And one day, you'll finally get to make the music."

The Isolation Nobody Talks About

When you're drowning in caregiver burnout, people say:

"Just take a break."

"Practice self-care."

"You're so strong."

"God only gives you what you can handle."

Every single one of those makes it worse.

People disappeared when caregiving got hard. Family members who said they'd help gone. Friends who couldn't handle my reality gone. Uncles, aunties, cousinseveryone had excuses.

I wish people would just say:

"This is unfair."

"You shouldn't have to do this alone."

"I see you. And I'm sorry the system failed you."

That's what I needed to hear. Not platitudes. Not inspiration. Just acknowledgment that this was impossible and I was doing it anyway.

The Truth About Hatred and Love

I can love someone and still hate what caregiving has done to my life.

That's the sentence that saved me.

Hating caregiving doesn't mean I hated my mom or my grandma. It means I hated:

• The system that left me to do this alone
• The family members who disappeared
• The loss of my childhood
• The dreams I had to kill
• The relentless, never ending exhaustion

That's not the same as hating a person. That's hating an impossible situation that nobody should have to endure.

When the hatred gets overwhelming, I write. I make music. I turn the rage into something that tells the truth instead of burying it.

What I'd Tell Another Caregiver

If you told me "I hate this and I feel like a terrible person," here's what I'd say:

You're not a terrible person. You're a human being in an inhumane situation.

Hating caregiving doesn't mean you're failing. It means the system failed you.

You're allowed to love someone and still want to quit.

You're allowed to resent the people who disappeared.

You're allowed to grieve the life you didn't get to live.

And you're allowed to say "I hate this" without someone telling you to reframe it as "dislike."

The Feeling Changed (But the Damage Didn't)

I'm 41 now. I retired from truck driving after an injury. I'm finally pursuing music full time with Day1Father.

The feeling has changed. I don't hate caregiving every single day anymore.

But I still have my days of rage.

Because what caregiving does to you mentally doesn't just disappear when the situation changes.

The trauma stays. The lost years stay. The resentment toward people who abandoned you stays. The damage to your mental health stays.

Healing isn't linear. Some days I'm okay. Some days I'm 14 again, standing in that bathroom mirror, crying because I can't go to the park.

Why I Write Songs About This

I write songs like "Repeating Hell" and "2 Buses to Dialysis" because therapy wasn't enough.

I write them because I need other caregivers to know:

You're not wrong for feeling this way.

You're not alone in the hatred.

You're not a bad person.

I call it Caregiver Realism. No toxic positivity. No inspirational BS. Just the truth about what invisible labor actually feels like.

If you need music that validates the hard parts instead of sugarcoating them, I made a playlist for us.

You're Not Alone

If you hate being a caregiver, that doesn't make you a bad person.

It makes you human.

And if someone tells you to "say dislike instead of hate," tell them this:

"With all due respect, don't tell me how to feel."