The house has been quieter since Mum passed.
It still feels irreverent to play loud music, except for the peaceful hymns she loved.
Sometimes I play the Spotify playlist “Grandma’s Favourite Hymns” that my daughters set up for mum; it helps me stay sane and keeps that quiet sense of serenity alive.
Hearing those tunes reminds me of the look of joy on Mum’s face when she heard us singing along.
Even with chats with Dad and my girls, visits from friends, and phone calls from family, there’s still a gap.
At times, I find the silence hard.
And I can sense myself rushing and busying myself to mask the pain
But I’m learning to lean into the silence, to use it as an opportunity to savour the quiet my soul longs for.
If you’re also in this tender time of grief, I invite you to read this reflection I recently wrote, which might support you, When Caregiving Ends: Grief, Breath, and Rest.
The quiet after caregiving
It’s been 15 weeks since Mum passed.
Everything still feels quiet and surreal.
We’ve kept the weekly house cleaner.
When she first arrived, Mum was puzzled as to why we needed help.
We had always shared the housework, but with caring for Mum, the load was too much for me to bear.
I patiently explained she was here to help me keep the house clean and tidy, “just how you like it, so I can spend more time keeping you company.”
Mum gazed at me, raised an eyebrow, shrugged her shoulders and accepted the help.
Even now, even though Mum has passed away, having someone come in to tidy still means one less thing to think about, and I get a lot of joy from walking into a sparkling kitchen and bathroom that I haven’t had to clean!
Plus, it’s a simple routine to maintain order when everything else feels out of place and misaligned.
On a physical level, even though I am no longer caring for Mum, my body still feels heavy.
My chest is tight with all the unanswered questions surrounding her condition and why she had to die. Nothing makes sense.
Old habits, like doom-scrolling at night and mindless snacking in the kitchen, are still here.
Unfortunately, the practices of rest and self-care I reintroduced into my day after a severe bout of shingles in January 2024 started to slip as the strain of caring for my parents took its toll on my energy.
It was a vicious circle.
Lack of energy meant I had little energy to care for myself, yet not caring for myself left me even more drained and exhausted.
So, after a chat with a good friend, I slowly started to slip in small, simple self-care practices I could do while caring for Mum, which, with hindsight, paved the way for me to breathe following her passing and subsequent period of grief after she passed away.
Here, they are.
- Yoga Nidra
- Legs up the Wall
- Hand on Heart breathing
- Micro-moments in nature
- Daily hugs
And I gently invite you to give them a try, especially if your self-care practices have also slipped.
I hope they bring you comfort and ease during the complex days of caregiving and grief.
Permission to pause: discovering Yoga Nidra
Yoga Nidra, often called yogic sleep, is a guided meditation that invites the body to rest deeply while the mind stays gently aware.
If you’re curious why this practice belongs in your routine, here’s why
During Mum’s afternoon naps, I ignored the pile of dishes and slipped into my room.
Wrapped in my soft pink blanket, I pressed play on a Yoga Nidra recording.
Within minutes, the tension in my jaw and shoulders softened.
I felt rested and alive, and best of all, I could breathe again.
The meditation gave me a moment of peace and relief from the merry-go-round of responsibilities.
Sometimes I drifted into sleep.
Other times, I rested in the calm.
Either way, when the practice ended, it was as if my mental cache had been cleared.
I felt human again, restored with enough energy to get through the next shift.
If you are new to yoga nidra, here’s one of my favourite practices on YouTube you could try. Yoga Nidra for Deep Relaxation and Sleep
Creating space for rest
At the end of the day, when the house was quiet, my mind was on overdrive.
I struggled to fall asleep as I replayed the day’s activities and wondered what tomorrow would bring.
To calm my mind and ease the stiffness in my lower back and tight ankles, I turned to a simple yoga posture: Legs up the Wall (Viparita Karani).
As I settled into the pose, it gave my body and my mind relief.
However, the hardest part wasn’t doing the pose.
It was finding space upstairs in my bedroom, which had become a placeholder as we shifted things around downstairs to fit the hoist, recliner chair, the hospital bed and other essential items Mum now needed.
So, one Saturday, between carers’ visits, my daughters helped me clear the boxes and clutter scattered throughout my bedroom.
We moved the bed a few inches away from the wall and created a small, clear patch of floor.
Reclaiming that space for my yoga mat and having access to a clear wall felt like a turning point in my self-care journey.
Doing my morning meditation on my yoga mat or putting my legs up against the wall gave me an anchor and gave me a sense of satisfaction.
Even on days I didn’t manage the posture or have the energy to get out of bed to sit on my mat and meditate, that clear space was still there.
A stable reminder of the fun memory of my girls and me working together, laughing as we pushed drawers and shifted boxes, and a clear invitation to pause and rest during the day.
Hand on Heart: a daily anchor
Each morning, no matter how disrupted my sleep had been, I reintroduced a short breathing practice when I woke up.
Lying in bed, one hand on my heart, the other on my belly. I would exhale and whisper:
Ntathu, you are doing OK. Breathe in peace. Breathe out worries.
Sometimes I only had energy for one slow inhale and exhale before crawling out of bed to get ready for when the carers and nurse arrived.
Other mornings, when my daughters worked from home and would greet the carers, I lingered for ten slow breaths and savoured the moment.
It soothed my mind and gave me a sense of ownership over my time and emotions, even if only for that moment.
Try this: If you are running on empty and anxious or overwhelmed, place one hand on your heart and one on your belly.
Breathe in for a count of four, out for a count of six; 3 to 10 rounds is a nice number to practise.
And if you’re still feeling down and want a little extra support to nurture your body, here are 15 gentle self-care affirmations for grief you can print out to keep nearby and use to help you get going for the day.
Meeting the knock at the door
I was grateful for the carers and health professionals who came to tend to Mum.
Some days, they were the only people I saw, apart from my daughters and dad, who understood what we were all going through.
Still, I began to dread the doorbell.
It raised my anxiety as I scanned my mental checklist of things to do between visits: meals, clothes, book appointments, and check medication.
To soften this dread, I made a small ritual.
Each time the bell rang, I paused, placed my hand on my heart, and whispered, It’s OK, you’re doing OK.
I opened the door, glanced up at the sky, noticed my neighbour’s tree, and quickly scanned the world beyond our four walls.
I exhaled.
Then I greeted the visitors, smiled, and gave thanks for the people entering our home.
That simple connection, with nature, with the souls entering our home and my environment, invisible to others, grounded me in nature.
Hugs that carried us
Another grounding practice came from my daughters.
Whenever they left for work or returned home, no matter how tired or preoccupied I was, I got up and greeted them with a hug.
Their loving touch, their presence, and their care for both me and their grandparents held me in ways words couldn’t.
The micro-practices that carried me
These small, kind practices—Yoga Nidra meditation, Legs up the Wall, Hand on Heart, micro-moments in nature, and daily hugs—carried me through caregiving and steady me now.
They are not grand or complicated.
In fact, they are tiny, almost invisible moments of self-care that have helped me get through each day.
I still get tired, yet the practices help strengthen my gratitude muscle and remind me I am alive and thankful for the chance to breathe.
Sadly, many carers suffer in silence, slip through the state safety net, unaware of local community resources, and are unsupported by family.
Caregiving, grief, and loss are tough, and we are not meant to carry these moments alone.
If you know someone who is tired, grieving, or quietly holding it together, please share this article with them.
And to support and encourage you further, you can also read more about my grief healing reflections here: When Caregiving Ends: Grief, Breath, and Rest.
Until next time, dear gentle friend, may you find comfort in small moments of peace.
With gratitude and love,
Ntathu
