To You, the One Reading…
You probably didn’t land here straight from a spa day, a silent retreat, or a tidal wave of “Cinnamon Dolce delivery en route!!” texts.
You’re more likely hopped up on:
• responsibility
• adrenaline you didn’t ask for
• parenting the parent
• emotions to manage (hers, yours, theirs)
• paperwork to wrangle (receipts and details)
• family chaos on tap (oooof)
All of it held together by a messy bun, a half‑empty cup of cold coffee (only hot is acceptable), a half‑charged phone, and a feral little part of you that refuses to quit. #badass
This is the #asyouwish, #testme, #fuckit reality‑TV/social‑media version of caregiving: mostly alone, even when “others” technically exist. They ghost you and hand you the Unhinged Villain crown, as if that solves their absence and absolves them of all responsibility—because you’re just too difficult to work around #brickwall
Welcome to Dazey’s Diary: “Shake It, Sassy Ass” vibes only.
What This Space Is (and Isn’t)
This is not your soft, pastel, essential‑oil playlist for “caregiver self‑care.”
My loved one listens to Lizzo’s “Still Bad” on repeat to calm her nerves in the car because big trucks are scary and panic attacks are real.
This is darkly funny, sharp‑edged, dry‑wit caregiving—sometimes upbeat, sometimes “rot in hell, not.” Reliving the past through her eyes, while everyone needs you just to shut the hell up and keep the peace.
The old status quo—where everyone else’s comfort came first—is burnt. #burnbaddieburn
Hers is more important. Always and forever. The fucking end. Dig your stilettos in—stubborn vibes.
Who This Diary Is For
I wrote Dazey’s Diary for me first.
It started as a counterweight to all the opinions cluttering the “real” receipts to the misinformation on repeat about what was perceived versus what was actually real. Hers, others’, mine, the spectators’… everyone knew, yet no one really knew the how, who, when, or where of it all.
I also wrote it for the people who got handed caregiving roles they never trained for—the truly “experienced” caregivers who are 24/7 in the trenches, trying to manage the memory care of a loved one without help. On the real, not the fantasy version of what it is to be a Sassy Ass, spicy caregiver.
It’s for the ones who still feel like they’re winging it every damn day—damn near alone or fully without support.
Our cold hearts weren’t always ice, and our ways aren’t always wrong, no matter how loud the audience is.
If you want sugar‑coated “love and light” advice, this isn’t it.
If you want:
• real talk
• practical support
• swearing and honesty
• zero judgment, with perceived independence and good intentions for your loved one still front and center
You’re in the right place.
Caregiving in the 2020s Is Wild.
Our loved ones are more tech‑savvy than anyone predicted. They look independent… they feel independent… right up until they’ve blown past every safety setting, clicked a sketchy link, or almost handed their bank account number to “Customer Support.”
Deepfakes look real. Scams are everywhere. And half the time we’re just trying not to lose our minds while keeping everyone safe.
Here, we don’t pretend everything is “fine.” We talk about what actually works, what blows up in our faces, and the small, petty wins that make a brutal day 2% less awful.
My story isn’t your story, but we probably overlap in:
• exhaustion
• love
• guilt
• resentment
• 2 a.m. Googling
You’re not failing—you’re carrying more than anyone should. Your effort matters, even when no one sees it.
You don’t have to earn support by being perfect. You don’t have to capitulate. You don’t have to lower your standards or please everyone.
You have to:
• be present
• care
• have good intentions for the Sassy Ass who has no clear memory of the present, but an amazingly detailed memory of the past—and how it felt
She remembers without filter, with childlike, blunt honesty that makes our world tilt sideways and forces duality to kiss our asses as we wear the fucking crown.
You’re allowed to need help. You’re allowed to ask for it. You’re even allowed to be pissed that you have to beg, defend, explain, and lower yourself.
And if you know, you really know. #iykyk
If you ever feel seen here—or a little less alone—that’s the point.
To the one reading: pull up a chair in the Cottage Bubble. You don’t have to be okay to belong here.