The Hands That Hold Us: A Tribute to Caregivers and Compassion

The Hands That Hold Us Through It All

This past week has been one of the hardest in recent memory.

My youngest cousin—full of life, with a family that adored him—died suddenly from a heart attack. He leaves behind a loving wife, who is an RN, and two beautiful daughters. My family is devastated. Shocked. Reeling. There are no words big enough to fill the hole left behind when someone you love is suddenly… just gone.

As I navigated through my own grief, I found myself working pop-up sales at several assisted living communities. Places filled with people in the winter chapters of their lives- some of them smiling, telling stories, sharing a meal with friends. People who, in some cases, may not be here next month. Or even next week.

As I held back tears and tried to take care of our customers, I saw something else: grace. Not just in the residents, but in the nurses, the CNAs, the physical therapists, the activity directors—the quiet army of health care professionals who walk side-by-side with aging patients every single day.

These are the people who bear witness to a thousand little goodbyes.

They gently lift patients who can no longer stand. They call families when a resident takes a turn. They remember birthdays when even the birthday girl cannot. They hold hands. They sing songs. They clean up messes—physical, emotional, and spiritual. And then they show up again tomorrow and do it all over again.

I thought a lot about that this week. About what it means to live a meaningful life. To love well. To serve others. To be there in the beginning and at the end—and all the messy, beautiful middle parts too.

Losing someone you love brings everything into sharp, painful focus. And yet, it also reminds us how grateful we should be for the people who make it their life’s work to care for others—especially when they’re at their most vulnerable.

To every health care professional working in geriatric care: thank you. You are the bridge between dignity and decline. You are the comfort in someone’s last chapter. You are the strength that holds us when we can’t hold ourselves.

This June, as we step into summer—a season of warmth, light, and life—I invite you to pause. Look around. Tell people you love them. And thank a healthcare worker, especially the ones who are quietly doing the hardest, holiest work.

Because loss may break us—but compassion helps put us back together.

And love, in all its forms, lives on.