
The teacher’s voice drifted through my headphones, offering gentle instructions about breath awareness and being in the present moment. But if I’m being honest, I was only half there. My mind wandered to the doctor’s appointment I needed to schedule for my father, the medications that needed refilling, and the dozen other caregiving tasks that had become my new reality. It was a moment of realization: I’d been going through the motions of meditation for months without truly engaging with the practice.
This recognition hit particularly hard because it represented a larger shift in my life. For years, I had relied on the comfort and effectiveness of consistent daily routines. Being retired, I found something deeply satisfying about knowing that each morning would unfold in predictable ways, which allowed me to build momentum and maintain focus throughout my day. I was creating the habits I expected to continue for the remainder of my years. When disruptions occurred, they were temporary blips. I could easily return to my established patterns once the obstacle passed.
But caregiving fundamentally altered this landscape. What once were occasional interruptions have now become the norm. Emergency calls, unexpected medical appointments, responding to whatever personality shows up in a dementia patient at the moment, and the constant vigilance required when caring for a parent who is more like a child — these have transformed my once-predictable days into a series of reactive responses. The obstacles aren’t temporary anymore — they are the new foundation upon which everything else must be built.
This shift has profoundly impacted my ability to concentrate and maintain focus. The mental bandwidth required for constant decision-making and problem-solving in caregiving situations leaves little energy for the sustained attention that my previous meditation practice demanded. In meditation sessions, I found myself feeling scattered, lost, and frustrated that I couldn’t achieve the same level of concentration I once took for granted.
Then came that pivotal question from the meditation teacher: “What is the goal or the outcome of your meditation?” The simplicity of the inquiry cut through my frustration and forced me to examine what I was trying to accomplish. I realized I had been clinging to an outdated definition of successful meditation — one that required routine conditions, extended periods of uninterrupted time, and measurable improvements in concentration during formal sitting practice.
My initial answer revealed both my attachment to the practice and my misunderstanding of its purpose. Yes, I wanted to be able to focus during meditation itself, but more importantly, I wanted to cultivate skills that would serve me throughout the chaos of daily life. The real goal wasn’t to achieve some idealized state of calm within the controlled environment of a meditation session, but to develop the capacity for presence and focus that I could access anywhere, anytime, regardless of external circumstances.
This realization sparked a fundamental shift in how I now approach my practice. Instead of viewing my inability to maintain long, uninterrupted meditation sessions as failure, I began to see brief moments of mindful attention as victories. Three minutes of focused breathing while waiting in a doctor’s office became as valuable as a thirty-minute formal session. A moment of conscious presence while helping my father with daily tasks transformed from an interruption of my “real” practice into the practice itself.
The beauty of this new approach lies in its adaptability. Rather than requiring my life to conform to my meditation schedule, I am learning to weave mindfulness into whatever circumstances present themselves. The skills I am trying to develop — presence, awareness, the ability to return my attention to the present moment after it has wandered — are being strengthened by the very challenges that seemed to be undermining my practice.
Caregiving, with all its unpredictability and emotional complexity, has become a training ground for applied mindfulness. Each time I notice my stress level rising and consciously take a breath, each moment I catch my mind spiraling into worry about the future and gently redirect it to the present task, each instance of finding patience in difficult situations — these all have become meditation in action.
This shift in perspective has been liberating. Success is no longer measured by the length of time I can sit in formal meditation or the degree of concentration I achieve in perfect conditions. Instead, it’s defined by my ability to access presence and focus in small moments throughout my day, regardless of what chaos surrounds me.
The guided meditation question helped me understand that the goal was never to escape from life’s complications, but to develop the skills to navigate them with greater awareness and equanimity. In embracing this new definition of practice, I’ve discovered that even in the midst of daily interruptions and demands, moments of peace and clarity are not only possible — but they’re also always available.
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This is timely. In my retirement, I decided to provide care and support for elders who are still living at home. I help them navigate their days. As long as I had one client, it was smooth sailing. As soon as I added another client, I found myself considering the logistics of meeting the needs of two people and found it is more complicated than I had anticipated. In addition to caring for them in their homes, yesterday, one called to be taken to Urgent Care and then upon returning home last night, the other called to be taken to the pharmacy. It is unplanned events like this that are interrupting the time that I thought I had to myself. I am so thankful for the years I have spent in meditation practice – I am now receiving the peace of mind I need in unexpected moments.
Thank you for writing this, Leigh. Caregiving for anyone is no joke, and caring for a person with dementia is one of the most difficult kinds. I honor your work both in caring for your father and in adapting your spiritual practice to keep caring for yourself as you do it.
This was such a powerful and moving read. The way you describe the annual march at the War Eagle Monument , gathering people to honor lost children and raise awareness about Native children in foster care, really moved me. The ritual becomes more than memory: it’s a statement of grief, solidarity, resistance, and hope. I deeply appreciate how you center the voices and stories of those directly impacted, especially when the systemic injustices are so often ignored. It reminds me that ritual can also be a form of healing, community-building, and activism. Thank you for telling this story, it matters.