What Not to Say to a Caregiver (and What to Do Instead)

Caregiving for an aging parent is not a role you audition for. You don’t train for it, you don’t ease into it, and you don’t get a medal at the end. You just wake up one day and realize: it’s all on you. Their appointments, their prescriptions, their emotional stability, their comfort, their chaos—it has somehow become your life. You didn’t ask for it, and you’re doing it anyway. That’s love. But it’s also a kind of quiet, daily unraveling.

What makes it harder is this: the way others respond to your role. Or more often, the way they don’t.

As a caregiver, I’ve had friends, family members, and acquaintances say things that, while probably well-intended, land like a slap. Sometimes it’s ignorance. Sometimes it’s avoidance. Sometimes it’s a refusal to acknowledge how much responsibility I actually carry. But regardless of the why, the result is the same: more isolation, more exhaustion, and more weight I didn’t need to bear.

So here are five things not to say to someone who’s caregiving—and what might be more helpful instead.

“She seems fine to me.”

Please don’t ever say this, or any variation of it. What you see in a short conversation, a Sunday lunch, or a phone call is not the full picture. It’s a curated version, often inflated by adrenaline or people-pleasing or confusion. Just because you don’t see what I see does not mean I’m exaggerating or overreacting. Trust that I know the nuance and reality of this person’s daily functioning better than anyone.

“You should really take better care of yourself.”

Yes. I should. I know. But telling me that—without offering any tangible support—only adds to my shame. It implies that if I’m tired or unraveling, it’s due to some personal failure instead of a system that asks me to hold more than is humanly reasonable. If you really want to support me, ask: What can I take off your plate this week?

“It’s so great that you’re there for her. She’s lucky to have you.”

This one’s tricky. It sounds kind. And maybe it is. But too often, it skips past me—what I’m carrying, what I’m sacrificing—and makes me invisible in my own story. Instead, try: I see how much this is costing you, and I admire your strength. How are you doing, really?

“If you feel this worn out, imagine how your mom feels.”

This is a masterclass in minimization. It erases the caregiver’s lived experience and replaces it with a guilt trip. I do imagine how my mother feels—that’s why I’m doing all of this. But my exhaustion and pain are valid too. One person’s suffering doesn’t cancel out another’s. And compassion shouldn’t be a competition.

“You’re doing what any good daughter would do.”

This might sound like praise, but it erases choice and reinforces guilt. It assumes that love should cancel out exhaustion, that sacrifice is the expected default, and that boundaries are somehow selfish. Not every daughter is in a position to take on this level of responsibility, and not every daughter should have to. Try instead: I hope you’re giving yourself credit for everything you’re doing—because it’s extraordinary, not obligatory.

“Just show some compassion for your mom.”

This suggestion often arrives cloaked in virtue, as if compassion is the thing I’ve forgotten. The truth is, compassion is what got me here. But compassion doesn’t mean martyrdom. Telling a caregiver to "just be more compassionate" when they're already drowning in service is like handing a glass of water to someone in a flood. If you really want to speak to compassion, offer it to the caregiver too. Ask: What would compassion for you look like right now?

“Just focus on the time you have left with her.”

This one is often said with good intentions, but it can feel spiritually bypassing. Yes, presence matters. But so does sleep. So does the right to be frustrated, scared, and raw. Asking someone to romanticize the present moment while they’re drowning in logistical and emotional overload is tone-deaf at best. A better offering might be: This is hard, and you don’t have to make it beautiful or meaningful while you’re in it.

Making decisions with or for my parent without including me

This one isn’t just unhelpful. It’s harmful. When others bypass the caregiver and engage directly with a vulnerable parent about medical or legal decisions or information, it creates confusion, risk, and often, irreversible consequences. If you respect my parent, respect the structure that’s in place to keep her safe. And that includes respecting me.

Caregiving is an act of devotion—but also, often, of depletion. If you want to support someone carrying this role, do it with presence. With humility. With curiosity. Don’t assume you know what they need. Ask. Don’t minimize their stress. Validate it. And above all, don’t disappear.

We’re not looking for saviors. Just people who understand that holding someone else’s life in your hands comes with a cost. And that seeing the caregiver is sometimes the most healing thing of all.