The Loneliness Nobody Talks About: Life as an Unpaid Carer
Updated: Oct 20
Recently, I put a post on Facebook asking whether anyone could help me with something relatively small. Nobody replied.
It wasn’t a big request, and I certainly don’t expect people to drop everything to help me and my daughter. But it made me realise something rather sad.
I really don’t have many people left in my life.
And I think that’s one of the things nobody really talks about when it comes to being a long-term unpaid carer.
You don’t just give up your time. You gradually lose your social life, your friendships, your independence and sometimes even your identity.
You turn down invitations because you can’t get away. You cancel plans because something happens. You stop making arrangements because your life is so unpredictable.
Eventually, people stop asking.
Their lives carry on. They go out, meet friends, have holidays, build relationships and make memories.
And somewhere along the way, your own world becomes smaller and smaller.
After almost 24 years of caring, I sometimes look around and wonder where everybody went.
My mum and stepdad, who are both getting close to 80, are the people I rely on most. I’m incredibly grateful for them, but they’re getting older too. They should be enjoying their retirement, not having to worry about helping me and my daughter through everything (particular when there are other people that could and maybe should helping).
We have a small family, and sadly, other family members have chosen not to be involved in our lives in any meaningful way.
I find that particularly difficult. You expect friendships to change over the years, but I don’t think you ever really expect to feel abandoned by family.
And when the only people you can really rely on are themselves getting older, you start to worry about what happens when they’re no longer able to help.
I’m 49 years old.
I’d love to have friends to meet for a coffee, go for a walk with, go to a pub quiz with, have a laugh with or simply pick up the phone to.
Not to talk about care packages, social workers, appointments or the endless battles that seem to consume so much of my life.
Just normal things.
I’d love somebody to ring and ask if I fancied going out. To be invited somewhere. To have something in the diary that has absolutely nothing to do with caring.
To be somebody other than a carer for a few hours. And I think that’s what I miss most. Just being me.
Because when you’ve spent so many years caring for somebody else, it’s very easy for your own life to disappear without you really noticing.
You become so used to putting everything on hold that eventually you stop making plans altogether.
The years pass, friendships drift, people move on, and before you know it, you’re watching everybody else getting on with their lives while yours seems to have stood still. And the strange thing is, you can be incredibly busy, constantly dealing with people, making phone calls, attending meetings, organising appointments and sorting out problems, yet still feel terribly lonely.
Because none of that is friendship. None of it replaces having somebody who simply wants to spend time with you.
I’m not writing this because nobody answered my Facebook post. Nobody is obliged to help.
It was simply one of those moments that brought home just how isolated I’ve become.
And I know I’m far from the only unpaid carer who feels like this.
There are people who have spent years, sometimes decades, making sure somebody else is safe, supported, included and cared for, while their own lives have quietly slipped away.
You can spend your entire adult life making sure somebody else isn’t isolated, only to find that you’ve become isolated yourself.
And the longer it goes on, the harder it becomes to find your way back.
Making new friends at 49 isn’t quite the same as it was at 19. People already have their friendships, their families, their routines and their lives.
Sometimes I wonder where I would even begin.
I don’t want to spend the next ten or twenty years feeling like this. I’ve already missed out on so much, and I don’t want to look back one day and realise that I never managed to find a life of my own again.
I love my daughter dearly, and I wouldn’t change how much I love her. But I do wish that caring for her hadn’t come at such a cost to my own life.
Because those two things should never have been mutually exclusive. Behind every unpaid carer is a person with a life of their own. A life that matters too. Someone who still wants friendships, laughter, companionship, opportunities and something to look forward to.
We talk a lot about giving unpaid carers a break.
But sometimes it’s about something much bigger than that. It is about giving people the chance to have a life beyond caring, before there’s nothing left of the life they once had
If something I’ve written has resonated with you, and you’d like to support me, you can always buy me a virtual cup of tea.
I’ll probably drink it sitting on my own, enjoying five minutes of peace, wondering where the last 24 years have gone!
Every little bit of support means a lot, whether that’s a cup of tea, sharing my writing or simply taking the time to read it.
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