By Gregorie Michael Towai (Eipéráng)
There is a complexity to caregiving that is difficult to fully understand until you have lived it yourself. Long before I became a caregiver, I always had a deep appreciation for those who devoted themselves to caring for others. I understood that it required compassion, attention to detail, patience, strength, and an unshakable commitment to someone else’s well-being. What I did not fully appreciate at the time was how easy it is to become consumed by that responsibility if you are not careful, and how much discipline it takes to continue giving of yourself without losing yourself in the process.
Caregiving is not simply a series of tasks. It is a way of living. It is waking up every day knowing someone else’s needs must come before your own. It is managing medications, appointments, meals, paperwork, transportation, and countless small details that most people never see. It is constantly thinking three steps ahead. It is learning to function despite exhaustion because the person depending on you cannot afford for you to have an off day.
When that person is someone you love deeply, everything becomes amplified. Every victory feels more meaningful. Every setback feels heavier. Every moment of uncertainty carries a weight that is difficult to describe. The emotional investment is no longer professional or procedural. It is personal. It is rooted in love, duty, family, and sacrifice.
What few people talk about are the losses caregivers experience themselves. There are family gatherings missed. Holidays shortened. Opportunities postponed. Friendships that drift. Moments you can never get back. There are loved ones you lose while caring for another loved one. There are funerals you cannot fully attend, final conversations you never get to have, and goodbyes that remain unfinished because your responsibilities require you to be somewhere else.
I know that reality all too well.
There have been times over the last several years when caregiving demanded so much of me that I could not fully show up for other people I loved. Not because I did not want to, but because someone else needed me more in that moment. Those experiences leave their mark. They teach you that love sometimes requires impossible choices and that sacrifice often comes without recognition.
If I am being honest, there have been moments when the burden felt overwhelming. Moments when grief, worry, exhaustion, and uncertainty all seemed to arrive at the same time. Moments when I wondered how much longer I could continue carrying everything that needed to be carried.
If it were not for my faith in God and the lessons passed down to me by my elders, I would have folded a long time ago.
My elders taught me that service is not about recognition. It is about responsibility. You do what needs to be done because it needs to be done. You care for people because they are your people. You carry burdens because they are yours to carry. They taught me that strength is not found in avoiding hardship but in enduring it with dignity, humility, and faith.
Those lessons have sustained me more times than I can count.
They also shaped something else that has become an important part of my life: writing.
Many people know me through my Op-Eds and public advocacy, but what they may not realize is that much of that writing was born from the same spirit that drives caregiving. It began with deep-sea mining. I saw something that threatened our islands, our ocean, and future generations, and I felt compelled to speak. From there, my writing expanded into local governance, public accountability, disaster recovery, and the many challenges facing the CNMI and our broader Pacific communities.
At its heart, however, it was never really about politics.
It was about caring.
It was about paying attention.
It was about seeing problems that affected people and trying, in whatever small way I could, to contribute to solutions. The same instincts that compel a caregiver to notice subtle changes in a loved one’s condition are often the same instincts that compel a writer to ask difficult questions about the community around them.
Writing became a lifeline for me. It became an outlet. It became a way to process grief, frustration, concern, and hope. Some people find relief through hobbies or recreation. I found much of mine through research, reading, reflection, and writing.
Yet there are times when even that becomes exhausting.
There are seasons when the responsibilities of caregiving become so consuming that you need to step away from everything else. The news can wait. The debates can wait. The comments can wait. The policy discussions can wait.
Sometimes what is needed most is silence.
Sometimes what is needed most is prayer.
Sometimes what is needed most is to commune with God and seek divine intervention through intense fellowship and reflection.
Not because you are giving up, but because you need to become grounded again. You need to realign your spirit. You need to remind yourself that hope still exists and that not every burden must be carried alone.
Those moments have become increasingly important to me. They are where I find perspective. They are where I find peace. They are where I remember that my strength has never truly been my own.
Perhaps that is why I have grown to appreciate seeing more people contribute their own voices to the public conversation. I appreciate reading Op-Eds from leaders such as Representative Vincent Kobre Aldan, Representative Marissa Flores, and many others who are willing to engage thoughtfully with the issues facing our islands. Healthy communities need people willing to think, question, write, and participate.
I would like to think that perhaps some of my own writing over the years helped encourage that spirit of engagement. After all, I have spent countless hours researching, asking questions, and sharing perspectives in the hope of helping our community better understand itself and the challenges before it.
But that would probably be a grandiose assumption.
The truth is that every person who chooses to write publicly does so because something matters deeply to them. They have their own reasons, their own motivations, and their own calling.
What matters most is that more voices are entering the conversation.
As I reflect on caregiving today, I find myself thinking less about accomplishments and more about gratitude. Gratitude for the loved ones I still have. Gratitude for the elders who prepared me for this season of life. Gratitude for the opportunity to serve. Gratitude for writing. And most importantly, gratitude for God, whose presence has sustained me through some of the most difficult chapters of my life.
Caregiving teaches many lessons, but perhaps the most important is this: you cannot continually pour from an empty vessel. Eventually you must pause. Eventually you must replenish your spirit. Eventually you must seek rest, reflection, and renewal.
For me, that renewal comes through faith.
And every time I return to that place of prayer and fellowship, I am reminded that while caregiving may be one of the heaviest responsibilities a person can carry, it is also one of the greatest expressions of love we can offer another human being.
Sángi Eipéráng (From Eipéráng),
Gregorie Michael Towai (Eipéráng) is a CNMI born independent researcher, cultural advocate, and founder of the Refaluwasch Journal of Knowledge and Culture (RJKC). His work focuses on Pacific governance, resilience, Indigenous stewardship, and sustainable futures for island communities.
Editor’s note: The views and opinions expressed in this op-ed are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of NMI News Service or its staff. All assertions are the sole responsibility of the writer. To submit an op-ed for consideration, email your piece to brad.ruszala@nminewsservice.com.