Caring for a writer
Summer is here, so I want to think about plans for writing. It also means I must consider summer schedules, responsibilities, and caregiving. I spend a great deal of time thinking about caregiving and writing. My identity as a writer has always been impacted by caregiving. I have two children, my mom was diagnosed with ALS during my first year on the tenure track, and my father has numerous illnesses that require continuous caregiving and support. I’ve had various care needs over the years too.
My default has often been not sharing how complicated my caregiving responsibilities have been. Sometimes, this was from a fear that others might perceive me as not being a “serious” or “dedicated” scholar. At other times, I could tell that people were uncomfortable because they didn’t know how they could help or what to say. I’ve had people warn me not to put too much emphasis on my caregiving roles. They would warn me that too much caregiving talk would impact how I saw myself. While the intention with that kind of advice may be about balance (honestly, I struggle to know why people thought this was even advice to share), it does little to acknowledge how caregiving and the lack of support for caregivers often make balance an impossible goal to attain.
My family’s complex caregiving needs have often left me feeling isolated and hopeless. Still, I have been in spaces (support groups, sharing with friends, reading other caregivers’ stories) to know I am not alone.
I’ve always been a writer but have not always been able to care for myself as a writer. I’ve written in carpool lines, clinics, commuter trains, and grocery stores. I’ve written first thing in the morning before everyone starts their day, late at night after everyone is in bed, and I’ve also tried to carve out minutes for writing in the hours between. I used to joke that I wrote most of my first book in the parking lot of my daughter’s school.
However, using that time for writing was a necessity. In graduate school, time is not always on your side to build care into a writing routine. It can be impossible to make caring a part of one’s writing routine, let alone your life. There’s little room for anything else between courses, classes, exam prep, dissertations, and seminar papers. I was fortunate to have mentors who helped me find ways to take care of myself. Two of the most important lessons they gave me were learning how to slow down when necessary and naming the difficulty of writing while also being a caregiver. I’ve not always been good at adhering to the first lesson, but I can attest to the importance of naming writing and caregiving as complicated.
Being on the tenure track with many caregiving responsibilities often felt like I was running three marathons simultaneously. There was no time to consider what it meant to care for myself as a writer. Writing was usually done in survival mode: meet the due date, work all hours until the conference abstract was complete, or send the emails I dreaded: having to ask for an extension. I now understand why it was hard for me to ask for help, I didn’t want to bring too much attention to my needs, and I didn’t want to suggest that I wasn’t competent. (As I type that word, competent, I have a visceral reaction to the word and tangled web of stories and memories that come with it. Maybe that’s a post for another day.) I realize now that so much of what I feared was grounded in stories I’d consumed about what success and competence in academia should be. My story, my path has to look different.
I often think about running when I think about writing because, like writing, when I run, I have to find a pace that works to make it through my route. I can’t follow what others are doing because their pace and trajectory may not fit my unique situation. The challenge with caregiving and work is often, there need to be two very different paces, and at times they do not always synch. All too often, integrating care into my writing practice was only possible because of a crisis or burnout. Most often, this crisis or recognizing the symptoms of how I was burnt out would mean I needed to stop writing altogether and significantly rethink what was possible in 24 hours.
We also need institutions to understand that complex caregiving roles do not have a one-size-fits-all approach to support. Yes, there are leave options, but they don’t always cover when one is needed as a caregiver because it can be unpredictable.
I earned tenure in 2022 and am still learning to care for myself as a writer. I am also unlearning habits that no longer serve me, such as needing to not shy away from having difficult conversations about my responsibilities and needs. My role as a caregiver hasn’t changed: my kids still need me, I am continuing to grieve the loss of my mother and learn how grief has impacted my writing process, and I continue to support my father’s care. Learning to care for me as a writer is not a process that will result in one grand revelation or a finite truth that will solve everything. Still, I hope that acknowledging that I do need and desire care will make me more consciously aware of what I need as a writer who is also a caregiver. What I know to be true right now is that to care for myself as a writer, I need to rest, eat well, spend time outdoors, and I need community.
So, when I think about what writing looks like for me this summer, I have a list of projects: a manuscript about social justice and fandom, blog posts about my museum work, finishing (finally) a piece about teaching with BTS content and returning to some memoir writing around what it means to be a fan alongside my daughter. I continue offering writing group support with my friend and collaborator, Dr. Beth Godbee, through Heart-Head-Hands. I’m also excited to be in the process of developing community writing support for caregivers. I hope to share more about that soon.
But above all, at the top of my list, I am thinking about what it means to care for myself as a writer. To do this, I’m asking myself:
-What does it mean to care for myself as a writer? On a good day, I can name the basics that I need: space, time, writing tools, art, and books for inspiration. But when being at my desk (or parked in the school’s parking lot) does not bring inspiration or space for writing, how can I still care for myself as a writer, acknowledging that many activities and steps count as writing?
-How can I gain clarity about what I need? For those of us who are caregivers, we know that it becomes routine to push your needs to the bottom of the list. I’m learning what it means to have a list that is not fixed but fluid as I try to make space for the support and activities I need to nourish my writing.
-What does it mean to keep writing with/through/ against burnout? I have experienced periods where I was unable to write or create. I’ve also used writing to process burnout and try to recover; sometimes, that works, and other times, not so much. How can I care for myself as a writer during these periods? How might a communal approach to caring for oneself as a writer help? (I’m also reminded of what Beth has written about burnout as being “collectively constructed through dehumanizing systems.”)
-What might it mean to invite play into my writing routine? I think about the lessons I’ve learned from my children: taking breaks to enjoy a few minutes with a game, drawing in one’s planner to map out a week, coloring or building with Legos when the blank page seems too much. Finally, I’m reminded of my late grandmother, who would often say, “Put down that book or whatever you are working on, get a drink of water, and take a nap!”
-What does it mean to make the rest part of my writing practice? (I’m reading Tricia Hersey’s Rest as Resistance; her work calls me to see rest as foundational to every practice.)
I’m sure I will return to these questions again, and again, and again. I won’t claim to have answers that work for all, but I will share my thoughts and stories for others who may be asking the same: What does it mean to care for a writer? What does it mean to care for me?
