Shelly Grimm - The Perpetual Caregiver

I've said it a thousand times and I'll keep saying it: no one should have to figure this out alone.

The Perpetual Caregiver Collective is a Family Preparedness Organization — and what that really means is this: we help individuals and families get ready for the moments that catch you completely off guard. Aging. Chronic illness. Caregiving. The financial stuff nobody wants to talk about until it's a crisis.

We've created a Partnership Guide for organizations who want to bring this support to the people in their communities — because caregivers are everywhere. They're in your offices, your churches, your neighborhoods. And most of them are white-knuckling it through something they were never prepared for.

If your organization does any of the following, I'd love to connect:
✔️ Employee Resource Fairs or Wellness Programs
✔️ Lunch & Learn Sessions
✔️ Community Education Events
✔️ Speaking Engagements
✔️ Family Love Letter Workshops or Retreats
✔️ Professional Collaboration in financial planning, healthcare, or advocacy

This is the work I was built for. Let's bring it to the families who need it most.

With love and radical honesty,
Shelly Grimm

Let's talk about something that doesn't get nearly enough airtime: the financial side of caregiving. Not the warm, fuzzy parts. The real ones.

The moment you realize you've been so focused on keeping your loved one alive that you forgot to keep your own financial life from quietly falling apart.

Here are the financial gaps caregivers fall into most often — and what to do about them:

1. No long-term care plan for yourself. You're busy arranging care for someone else — but who will take care of you? LTC insurance isn't just for the elderly. It's for anyone who ever wants a choice.

2. No updated beneficiary designations. Life changes fast when you're caregiving. The beneficiary on your 401(k) may still say your ex from 2009. This is a fixable mistake. Fix it.

3. No estate documents. A will, a power of attorney, a healthcare directive — these aren't paperwork. They're love letters to the people who will manage your affairs when you can't.

4. No protection if you had to stop working. Caregiving often forces people out of the workforce. Disability insurance and a clear picture of your Social Security options are not luxuries. They're lifelines.

5. No record of what caregiving is actually costing you. If you ever need to make a case — for your family, for policy — you need documentation. Start keeping track now.

You are not just a caregiver. You deserve financial security, a retirement, and a plan that doesn't leave you invisible.

Drop a comment or send me a message — let's figure out where to start.

With love and radical honesty,
Shelly Grimm

🌿💜 Some words don’t simply ask to be read—they ask to be reflected upon.

This beautiful piece reminded me that each of us has been entrusted with something uniquely our own to offer the world.

For much of my life, I’ve wrestled with whether I should make myself smaller. I’ve been told I care too deeply, feel too much, or invest too heavily in people. There have been seasons when I questioned whether those parts of me were strengths or weaknesses.

But I’ve come to believe that our gifts aren’t meant to be hidden simply because they make others uncomfortable.

Not everyone is called to bring music into a room.
Not everyone is called to advocate for caregivers.
Not everyone is called to listen, teach, comfort, organize, or lead.

We each carry something different.

The invitation is simply to discover what we’ve been given—and to offer it generously, especially when someone needs it most.

Thank you, Gabby, for this beautiful reminder that what remains isn’t our title or our accomplishments. It’s the love we leave behind and the gifts we had the courage to share.

When our last breath is taken I was sitting with a woman who was days before her death, fully conscious and aware of everything she was feeling and experiencing. She said to me, "can I share with you what this feels like?" I said yes, of course. I am always curious about the hours, days, and moments that lead to the very last br...

🌿💜Y'all... I have to share something with you today.

I've been named one of GlobalBiz Outlook's "Most Influential Visionary Women 2026" — and the article is called "Shelly Grimm: Transforming Caregiving into a Movement of Purpose, Preparedness, and Hope."

I sat with that title for a while. Because it's not just a headline. It's everything I've given my life to.

You know my story. It started at age five, when caregiving became my normal before I had words for it. It continued when my son Ben was born neurodivergent, making me part of the sandwich generation before that term even existed. It deepened through 28 years in financial services — watching families arrive in crisis, unprepared, overwhelmed, and feeling completely alone.

Every Family Love Letter we've completed together. Every 2am call I've taken from a caregiver who didn't know where else to turn. That's what this recognition is about.

Not me — us.

This community, the caregivers who show up every day doing the invisible, unrelenting, world-changing work of keeping their people alive and loved — you are the movement.

I'm so grateful for GlobalBiz Outlook for seeing what we're building together. And I'm so grateful for each of you who has shared your story, attended a retreat, referred a friend, or simply told me that something I said helped you feel less alone.

That's the whole thing. That IS the thing.

Read the full article here: https://globalbizoutlook.com/shelly-grimm-transforming-caregiving-into-a-movement-of-purpose-preparedness-and-hope/

Tell me — what does caregiving mean to you? I'd love to hear your story in the comments. 👇

With love and radical honesty, Shelly Grimm

🌿💜This is one of the most compassionate and honest explanations I’ve read about a conversation many families face at the end of life.

As caregivers, we often worry that comfort medications will take away precious moments with someone we love. What I’ve learned through my own caregiving journey is that love sometimes means helping ease suffering, even when the choices feel difficult.

One part of this especially resonated with me: they may not be able to respond, but they can still hear you.

If you’re walking through hospice care, anticipatory grief, or the sacred work of saying goodbye, I encourage you to read Gabby’s thoughtful perspective.

❤️ Read the full article below.

One of the places I meet the most resistance at the end of life is around the use of medications to relieve symptoms such as pain, agitation, or delirium. The medications I am referring to are often morphine, lorazepam (Ativan), or haloperidol (Haldol), commonly included in the comfort kit provided when someone begins hospice care. What families struggle with most is the fear that these medications may cause their person to sleep more or become deeply sedated, taking away the ability to have conversation.

I understand that fear. Communication at the end of life is sacred. People hold tightly to the hope of one more chance to hear their voice. I have sat at the bedside of someone I love, longing for one more word, knowing it wasn’t going to come. Wanting to keep someone as awake and present as possible comes from love.

What I have learned, though, is that when someone is dying and suffering, it can keep them from leaning into the dying process with the peace they deserve. Medications are not something I push or force. I never want families to carry regret or guilt into their grief. But I do believe deeply in education and support, and in helping families make peace with the fact that sometimes medication is exactly what allows suffering to soften.

What I often say in these moments is this: they might not be able to respond to you, but they can hear you. You may have already heard their last words, but they can still hear yours. I believe this with every ounce of my being. I witnessed it with my own brother, who was non-responsive in the ICU. After many days at his bedside saying all the things I had left unsaid, he woke the day before he died and his last words to me were, “I’m sorry too.” He heard me.

Medications at the end of life are not what end someone’s life; their illness and disease process do that. These medications simply allow them to die with more peace, more ease, and less suffering, and I truly believe that is something every human being deserves.

I am not here to convince you. I am here to sit with you. I want you to feel heard and to make peace with a decision I know can feel heavy and complicated. My hope is to educate and support you in a way that allows you to make peace with this choice, to give medication if it’s needed without hesitation, and to trust that your presence matters, that your words are heard, felt, and wrap gently around the person you love, offering comfort, safety, and permission to let go.

Be present. Speak your heart.
Let your love hold them, and let them go.
Trust that your care, your words, your presence wrap them in the gentlest comfort. And know that in this act of love, you have done exactly what was needed.

xo
Gabby

You can find this blog here:
https://www.thehospiceheart.net/post/medications-at-the-end-of-life-a-gentle-conversation

🌿💜Repost because every caregiver needs to hear this.

If you’ve ever sat beside someone you love in their final days, there’s a good chance you’ve asked yourself some version of these questions:

“Did I do enough?”

“Should I have been there more?”

“Did I make the right decisions?”

As a lifelong caregiver, I’ve learned that one of the heaviest burdens many caregivers carry isn’t the caregiving itself.

It’s the guilt they carry afterward.

The second-guessing.
The replaying of moments.
The wondering if they could have somehow changed the outcome.

I’ve watched caregivers move mountains for the people they love and then spend years focusing on the one thing they wish they had done differently.

What I want every caregiver to know is this:

You were never meant to be perfect.

You were meant to love.

You made decisions with the information you had.
You showed up with the strength you had.
You carried responsibilities most people never see.
And you loved someone through one of life’s most difficult transitions.

That matters.

At The Perpetual Caregiver Collective, we talk often about preparation, planning, and legacy. But we also talk about grace.

Because no Family Love Letter, no organized document, no perfectly executed plan can replace the most important gift you gave:

Your presence.

If you sat at the bedside…
If you advocated…
If you worried…
If you prayed…
If you loved…

You gave more than you realize.

And if you’re carrying guilt today, I hope you’ll consider setting some of it down.

Your loved one would not want your final act of caregiving to be punishing yourself.

They would want you to remember the love. 💜🌿

Some of the most common fears I hear from those at the bedside after a death are these:
"I didn’t do enough."
"I should have been there more."
"I should have stayed longer."
"I should have known what to say, what to do, how to make it better."

When we read or hear things afterward about end-of-life care, it is almost impossible not to think, "why didn’t I do that?"

Learning after the fact does not mean you failed before it. It simply means you are human, doing the best you could with the tools, knowledge, and strength you had at the time.

Sitting at the bedside, especially for the first time, comes with uncertainty, fear, and impossible decisions.
You gave medications even when it scared you.
You didn't give medications because they scared you.
You fed them because you thought it was right.
You stopped feeding and carried the weight of that choice.
You stepped out of the room, and they took their last breath.

You showed up when you could, advocated when you knew how, trusted others when you needed help, and loved in the ways available to you. None of this is a flaw. These doubts and second-guessing yourself are not signs that you did something wrong; they are signs that you cared deeply.

You don’t have to have all the answers to get this right. Even those of us with experience still question ourselves at certain bedsides. What matters most is that you showed up with your heart, that you tried, and that you loved. That was enough.

Remember this: you did everything you possibly could. You did the best that you could with what you knew, what you had, and who you were in that moment, and you showed up, that is the gift.

Do not compare your story to someone else’s or second-guess what you gave. This was never a competition or a test of self-worth. It isn’t about what others might have done or how you think you should have done it. It is about what you did, and that you were there, and to the person in that bed, that was everything.

And if this was your first time caring for someone at the end of their life, and you learned something that may help you show up differently for someone else someday, or allows you to offer wisdom to a friend walking this path, then what you did here mattered in another way too. You grew. You evolved. We continue to do better, and that is what matters.

xo
Gabby
www.thehospiceheart.net

There are stories that stop you in your tracks.

This is one of them.

A family in Australia is gone. Two parents. Two teenage sons with profound support needs. Three beloved pets.

Gone.

As caregivers, we read a story like this and our hearts don’t just break—they ache with a kind of understanding most people will never fully grasp.

Not because we understand their decision.

But because we understand exhaustion.

We understand what it feels like to carry responsibility every hour of every day. To live in a state of constant vigilance. To love so deeply that your own needs disappear somewhere beneath the weight of everyone else’s.

We understand the loneliness that can exist even when you are never alone.

We understand what happens when asking for help becomes another job.

And we understand the fear that lives in the back of every caregiver’s mind:

“What happens when I can’t do this anymore?”

This story is every caregiver’s worst nightmare—not because of how it ended, but because somewhere along the way, two parents lost hope that help was coming.

No family should ever reach that place.

No caregiver should have to carry so much that death feels more available than support.

Today, I am thinking about this family. I am grieving for their sons. I am grieving for two parents who must have been carrying unimaginable pain. I am grieving for every caregiver who is struggling silently behind closed doors, trying to make it through one more day.

If you are a caregiver reading this, please hear me:

Your life matters too.

Your exhaustion matters.

Your mental health matters.

And needing help is not weakness.

The tragedy in Australia is a heartbreaking reminder that caregiving cannot be sustained on love alone. Love is powerful, but caregivers also need support, respite, resources, community, and hope.

May we never stop fighting for a world where caregivers are seen before they break.

And may we never ignore the quiet cries for help that so often come long before a tragedy ever makes the news.

💜

Tragedy in Australia.

Two parents chose to die with their children and their beloved pets after reaching the painful conclusion that the system meant to protect them had abandoned them.

That sentence alone hits like a punch to the chest. It is not just a headline. It feels like the sound of human hope collapsing under unbearable weight.

This happened in Mosman Park, a quiet suburb near Perth. Clean streets. Neat homes. Perfect lawns. The kind of place where life appears stable and peaceful, where suffering is easy to miss.

But behind one closed door, hope had run out.

Jarrod Clune was 50. Maiwenna Goasdoue was 49.

For years, they fought a battle most people will never truly understand. Their sons, Leon, 16, and Otis, 14, lived with severe autism and required constant care, every hour of every day.

There were no real breaks.

No time to recover.

No room to collapse.

Every day demanded strength. Every night demanded more.

Their three pets stayed close too, small sources of comfort in a home carrying more weight than most could imagine.

Before they died, Jarrod and Maiwenna taped a note to their front door.

“Do not enter. Call the police.”

It was calm. Clear. Deliberate.

Not the words of impulse.

It read like the final decision of two people who had spent countless sleepless nights searching for another way.

Inside, police found no signs of struggle. No chaos. No violence.

Only silence.

Investigators later discovered a second letter.

It explained everything with heartbreaking clarity. Their reasons. Their planning. Their final wishes. Even financial instructions for what should happen after they were gone.

A carefully prepared goodbye.

That is what makes this so devastating.

This was not confusion.

This was exhaustion turned into certainty.

As the story unfolded, people close to the family began speaking out. Caregivers. Friends. Disability advocates.

They described years of pleading for help and being turned away.

Funding through Australia’s disability support system had reportedly been reduced or denied.

The reasons sounded cold. Clinical. Detached.

Too difficult.

Too complex.

Too expensive.

Too much.

Too much for a system built to protect families exactly like theirs.

What remains is more than a tragic story.

It is a portrait of complete exhaustion.

Two parents who kept fighting until they had nothing left to give.

Two people who reached the end of every road they could find.

Four lives.

Three innocent animals.

Gone.

And this is not just about one family in Australia.

It is about every place where people quietly drown while paperwork keeps piling up.

Every place where asking for help turns into begging.

And begging turns into silence.

When support systems fail, policy is not the first thing to break.

Families are.

And sometimes, hope dies first.

🌿💜🫶I couldn’t agree more…but, boy is it hard to do…every day.

As someone who has spent a lifetime caregiving, building businesses, raising a neurodivergent child, navigating loss, and learning more lessons the hard way than I care to count, I’ve discovered that the most meaningful things in life are rarely built overnight.

We live in a world that celebrates the highlight reel. The promotion. The launch. The milestone. The breakthrough.

What we don’t see are the thousands of small decisions that came before it.

The late nights.
The setbacks.
The tears.
The prayers.
The moments when quitting seemed easier than taking one more step.

The truth is, growth isn’t glamorous.

A child crawls before walking.
A caregiver learns one challenge at a time.
A business grows one relationship at a time.
A legacy is built one decision at a time.

Looking back, every chapter that shaped me required patience. Not because I wanted it to take longer, but because the lessons I needed couldn’t be rushed.

If you’re feeling behind today, you’re not.

If you’re taking small steps, keep taking them.

If you’re doing the work no one sees, keep doing it.

The life you’re building isn’t measured by how fast you get there. It’s measured by the foundation you’re creating along the way.

Small beginnings often produce the most enduring legacies. 🌿

Most people destroy their future because they are obsessed with skipping steps.

They want the reward without the process.
The success without the struggle.
The result without the growth.

But life was never designed that way.

A child crawls before walking.
A seed disappears into the soil before becoming a tree.
Even education happens in levels because growth is meant to be gradual.

The problem with trying to take giant steps too early is that your mind, habits, discipline, and character may not yet have the capacity to carry what you are chasing.

That is why small daily steps matter.

One small improvement.
One lesson learned.
One disciplined decision.
One day of consistency.

Over time, those little stones become a mountain.

Stop rushing your life because you saw someone else moving fast.
Some people are carrying things they are not ready for, and eventually the weight breaks them.

Real growth is slow.
Real mastery is built quietly.
Real success is earned in stages.

Do not underestimate small beginnings.
A life built patiently will always last longer than a life forced too quickly.

🌿💜Today, I’m asking everyone to pause for a moment and remember how quickly life can change. 💔🙏🇺🇸

Reports say Tulsi Gabbard is stepping away from public responsibilities after her husband, Abraham Williams, was diagnosed with a serious and rare form of bone cancer.

Whatever someone’s politics may be, this is a deeply human moment.

No headlines.
No arguments.
No sides.

Just a wife standing beside the man she loves during one of the hardest seasons a family can face. 🤍

Caregiving has a way of reminding us what matters most. When illness enters a family’s life, priorities change quickly. The calendar, the career, the public expectations — all of it becomes secondary to love, loyalty, faith, and presence.

No family should have to walk through a battle like this alone.

Please keep Tulsi, Abraham, and their loved ones in your prayers during this difficult time. Pray for strength, healing, peace, wisdom for their doctors, and comfort for their family as they face the road ahead together. ✝️🙏

May we all be reminded to lead with compassion, hold our loved ones close, and never take a single day for granted. 🤍🇺🇸

Amen

Tulsi Gabbard resigns as director of national intelligence, citing her husband's health