Life rarely asks for permission before it changes the terms. A diagnosis. A fall. A phone call that dramatically shifts a role from adult child to caretaker. Sometimes that caretaking happens up close. Sometimes it happens from a distance, through calls, appointments, reminders, and the constant low hum of concern that never fully turns off.
If you’ve noticed my absence in the past couple of months, that’s where I’ve been. Right now, I’m thankful for my training and understanding of how my nervous system works.
Some days I freeze. My thinking gets foggy. Everything feels on pause, even when I want to move forward. Other days I spring into overdrive, researching, coordinating, following up, negotiating when medical advice is ignored or dismissed. Neither response feels healthy. Both feel familiar.
It helps me to know that these are nervous system responses shaped by cultural expectations and experiences. When something unexpected lands, the body asks a simple question: Am I safe? If the answer feels unclear, we default to what once helped us survive. We freeze and conserve, or we mobilize and control.
Neither response is wrong. But staying in either one for too long can take a toll.
Caring for aging parents, especially from a distance, is complex. It’s a constant negotiation between helping and accepting that help may not be received. When someone we love chooses not to follow medical guidance, emotions swing between anger and helplessness.
As the new year begins, I feel a yearning for rest and restoration. This lunar new year begins on February 17th and carries the energy of the Fire Horse, often associated with intensity, independence, and strength. For many Asian women, those qualities come with a familiar tension. The same strength that was once tempered or cautioned is now what is relied upon to carry family, responsibility, and care.
Filial duty lives in the body. It shows up in how we manage, how we endure, how we keep going even when we are depleted. And sometimes, it makes slowing down feel uncomfortable, even when it is necessary.
I am learning that caring doesn’t have to mean overfunctioning. That stepping back doesn’t mean stepping away. That rest is not a withdrawal of love.
Balance, I’m discovering, doesn’t mean staying calm or neutral. It means noticing when my body has tipped into freeze or overdrive and gently creating space for something else. Sometimes that looks like making the call and doing the things that need to be done. Sometimes it looks like letting grief or frustration to flow and be present with it. Often, it looks like rest without justification.
At The HERD, we see this reflected in our horses every day. When given choice and agency, they don’t override their bodies to meet expectations. They respond honestly to the present moment. When something feels unsafe, they pause or move away. When connection feels steady, they soften. There’s no guilt in their need for rest or regulation.
In their presence, balance reveals itself as something active rather than passive. It’s responsiveness, not reactivity. When slowing down happens alongside them, breath deepens. Strength begins to look less like constant effort and more like knowing when to move and when to stand still.
When life throws something unexpected, the goal is not to eliminate freeze or overdrive. It is to create enough internal safety that neither response has to take over completely. That is the kind of endurance worth cultivating, one that remembers how to listen, how to pause, and how to stay present without leaving oneself behind.
I know that many in our HERD are also navigating caregiving in your own lives. Know that you are not alone. As you move through this season, you might gently ask yourself:
- Where am I pushing when a pause might be needed?
- What support can I access right now to find some ease?
- What might help my nervous system settle, even a little, right now?
Like the horses, these questions invite awareness of the moment and of the wider herd that is quietly holding space. I am thankful for that presence in our HERD community, and I hope you feel it too.
May the Fire Horse carry you through this season with strength that is steady, patient, and compassionate.