I grew up in a house that was constantly juggling. Long before I was an adult, I watched my mom and dad walk the tightrope between their jobs and the intense needs of our family.

It started with my grandmother. By the time I was old enough to really remember, she was facing her second stroke. My grandfather was her rock and her main caregiver, but the weight of it was everywhere. We weren’t alone—we had professional help—but caregiving is never just one person’s job. I remember the hospital trips, the quiet stress in the kitchen, and the way our home had to transform to keep her safe.

Then there was my aunt. She lived with us while managing severe diabetes, eventually needing crutches to move because an old accident wound simply wouldn’t heal. As a little girl, seeing the reality of that—the bandages, the struggle to walk—stayed with me.

After my grandmother passed, my grandfather suffered a stroke as well. He became bedridden while my siblings and I were still in school. Even with caretakers helping us, our lives revolved around making him comfortable and safe in a world that wasn’t built for a bedridden man.