After 40 years as a nurse, I help people in their golden years create simple income in retirement, so debt and money stress don’t take away from family, caregiving, or legacy. I am now officially retired as of 12/31/25 11:59. This weekend will be the first that I will not be working.

Yesterday, I had a great video call with @Laurie Mishmash . We talked about what we’re both building on Skool and how Mighty Care Voices and Golden Years can support each other as aligned groups. It was an encouraging conversation about sharing meaningful content, serving our members better, and creating win-wins for the people we care about. More to come as we explore ways to collaborate and lift up both communities. Go to this link in zoom and use the provided passcode to watch! https://us06web.zoom.us/rec/share/zr7AFm3Hq1VtFK2nGlh-CZA5ST5dzzyp9BEByJvlgD4M3AZeAxVs_nLBG3wzeBax.S5j_30yWMQUwIM6W Passcode: ?Y&5utjS

I pulled up to a medical office complex and watched as a woman made her way toward my car. She moved slowly, deliberately—like someone carrying more than just a purse. It was the kind of posture I’ve learned to recognize over the years—the posture of someone hauling invisible weight. When she slid into the back seat, she let out a sigh that filled the car. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just honest. Her voice was tired but clear, and her words hung in the air like a quiet plea. I caught her eyes in the rearview mirror—exhausted, but still searching for something light. Something human. I asked what she did at the facility. “I’m a caregiver,” she said. “I work with people living with dementia. There’s so much going on at work—wandering, sundowning, confusion, heartbreak. I love them. I really do. But today?” She paused and shook her head. “Today I need a break and a laugh.” I smiled. “You’re in the right car. I’ve spent years working in senior living. I get it.” She looked relieved. Seen. “Okay,” I said, without hesitation, “here’s one for you. Why did the chicken cross the playground?” She paused, curious. “I don’t know… why?” “To get to the other slide.” For a split second, there was silence. Then she burst out laughing—not a polite chuckle, but the kind of laugh that bubbles up from somewhere deep and forgotten. The kind that surprises even the person laughing. “That’s so dumb,” she said between giggles, wiping her eyes. “But it’s exactly what I needed.” From there, the car turned into a comedy club on wheels. We swapped stories—the kind only caregivers truly understand. She told me about a resident in memory care who once insisted I was her long-lost nephew and made me promise to take her to the circus. About a gentleman who serenades staff with Elvis songs every morning, complete with hip shakes and finger guns. We laughed about how dementia rewrites reality—and how sometimes the kindest thing you can do is step into that reality instead of correcting it. We joked about the endless supply of cookies in break rooms, caffeine-fueled survival tactics, and the universal truth that every care team has at least one person who swears by essential oils for everything. We laughed because laughter was the one medicine she hadn’t run out of. By the time we reached her destination—a local diner where she planned to treat herself to pie and silence—her shoulders had lifted. Her eyes sparkled. She looked lighter. Freer. Like someone who had just remembered what it felt like to breathe. I watched her walk inside and sat there for a moment, thinking about what had just happened. Laughter isn’t just relief. It’s resistance. It’s how caregivers reclaim a piece of themselves in the chaos. How do they remind themselves they’re still human? Still whole. Still worthy of joy. That day, the back seat wasn’t just a ride. It was a release. And sometimes, the best care we can offer isn’t advice or answers— It’s a good laugh and a safe place to land. Reflection Caregiving is heavy work. It holds grief, responsibility, unpredictability, and constant vigilance. But woven through that weight is something just as powerful—humor. Not because the work is funny, but because laughter becomes a lifeline. In caregiving spaces, laughter isn’t disrespectful. It’s survival. It’s how caregivers keep going when logic fails, plans unravel, and emotions overflow. It’s a reminder that joy can still exist—even in the middle of hard. This ride reminded me that sometimes people don’t need solutions. They need a moment where their nervous system can unclench—a place where it’s safe to laugh, even at the absurdity of it all. And sometimes, healing sounds like giggles echoing in the back seat of a car. Questions to Sit With When was the last time you laughed freely—without guilt or explanation? How does humor show up (or disappear) in your caregiving journey? What moments of levity help you feel human again? Who offers you a safe space to laugh when the weight feels heavy? And how might you permit yourself to seek joy—not as escape, but as care? Because laughter isn’t a luxury for caregivers. It’s medicine.

This episode highlights Pamela Dickey who is a Mighty Caregiver. She shares her experiences and thoughts about providing physical therapy in the home health setting. She wears a cape everyday!. Go To Podxast Here

I am a HUGE Billy Joel fan. I was so happy to see his surprise return after revealing a brain disorder. My wife and I have been to many concerts and his flow of care is his ability to share his music on stage. Also, some say I am Billy’s Doppleganger.