Beyond Caregiving: Finding Yourself After the Goodbye

Andrea B Denney

Welcome back, everyone, to Remembrance Record. I’m Andrea, and—whew—I feel like we’re walking into a different kind of stillness today. If you’ve ever been a caregiver, or loved someone through a long goodbye, you’ll know what I’m talking about: that hush that settles after the last care task is done and the world suddenly… just. gets. real. quiet.

Josh Forsh

Yeah, Andrea, it’s like you go from never having a second alone, every moment tethered to someone else’s needs, to this weird sort of—uh—echo that kinda bounces around the house, right? Like, you still half expect to hear the TV, or the old coffee pot humming, but it’s just you… and the creaks.

Andrea B Denney

That’s exactly it. I wrote about this in After the Goodbye—that initial silence isn’t just about missing your person. It’s almost as if you’re missing an entire rhythm, the heartbeat of shared life. There’s this invisible labor, these tiny acts—folding shirts, brewing coffee, brushing a forehead—that you never, ever thought would be the things you’d long for. But then, when I stood there, just me and the laundry basket, every shirt felt like a little story. And honestly, folding laundry became my memory-keeping. Each shirt, it held my late husband’s laugh, his moods, the way he wanted a collar turned just so…

Josh Forsh

That… whew, that actually hits. It reminds me, we talked a lot in those first episodes about how small-town landscapes fade, but I don’t think we ever really touched on these tiny routines—those private, invisible things that… you know… stay with you after. Let me just ask, to anyone out there listening: What ritual do you still catch yourself doing, even after loss? Is it something small, like setting out two coffee cups? Or do you find yourself, like, talking to the empty room? Because, I mean, we all have one, right?

Andrea B Denney

Oh, absolutely. And I think even just noticing those moments can feel sacred. Even the ache, even the mess of it. The folding, the lingering in a hallway—that’s not just memory, it’s proof of care, a thread tying you to who you were. And it doesn’t need to be heroic, like I used to think. The grief… it’s not only losing the person—you’re also mourning the you that existed because they needed you, the structure and purpose that shaped every breath of your day.

Josh Forsh

It feels like… nobody warns you, right? Nobody tells you what to do when that part of you, the part that helped, suddenly doesn’t know who it is anymore. And I love what you wrote, Andrea: the silence isn’t empty, it’s… I think you called it “a teacher.” Like it’s there to help us notice the strengths we built up, the echoes of care rippling through the quiet.

Josh Forsh

So, building on that—last week, actually, we had a listener message come in, and it really fits here. She said, “Every Sunday I make his favorite apple cobbler, just like I did when he was alive. It’s not about the dessert—it’s about remembering the way he’d sneak bites while it cooled.” That’s a legacy practice if I’ve ever heard one. Andrea, in You Still Matter, you talk a lot about this, right? Anchoring memories through photos, through journaling… why do those simple acts matter so much?

Andrea B Denney

They really, truly do. Sometimes memories feel so fragile, like if we don’t keep them close, they’ll just float away. But there’s this power in making them tangible—even if it’s just a scribbled notebook, or, in my case, snapping a photo of a patch of sun on the old kitchen table. It creates a place—a doorway you can return to, whenever you need. I always say, tie a memory to an image, or even write it beside a photo. It makes the remembering sweeter, and honestly, a little less overwhelming.

Josh Forsh

And you wrote in your legacy guide—there’s this gentle nudge to rediscover who you are, even as you’re holding all that grief. Like, you literally say, “What part of you did caregiving place on hold?” That’s a big, big question.

Andrea B Denney

It’s massive. Because, for so long, I’d put hobbies, friendships—heck, even just sitting to watch a storm roll in—on the back burner. It took a while, but after the goodbye, I had to re-learn that those things are not trivial. They are part of my legacy, too. Sometimes it’s just… sitting with a photo album, jotting down memories, or picking up the camera again. Gentle self-discovery, piece by piece. And to anyone out there questioning if you still matter after all you’ve given—please, you do. Your life, your story, is still unfolding, and the love you gave doesn’t just vanish.

Josh Forsh

And making your loved one’s meal, or doing their favorite hobby—even just repeating a phrase they always said—it’s a way of carrying love forward. Like, the smallest actions can become a channel for that old connection, right?

Andrea B Denney

Exactly. Every time you live out a lesson they taught you, or cook that cobbler, or share a joke only you two would understand—that’s legacy. That’s your tribute, and it’s theirs too. The bond doesn’t end, it just changes form and, I think, becomes even more resilient the more we notice it in our daily routines.

Andrea B Denney

So here’s where the real work comes in. In After the Goodbye, I talk about four ideas that have shaped how I moved forward: releasing, carrying, breathing, and keeping the thread. It’s not really about “getting over” anything. It’s about letting grief move… gently, and learning that you can actually grow more whole by carrying those memories, not setting them down and pretending nothing happened.

Josh Forsh

That “keeping the thread” idea really sticks with me. Like, you don’t have to drop every old custom or ritual—the trick is following them on your terms. And I gotta say, this theme of redefining what it means to be whole? That’s a new one for me. You talk about becoming whole by integrating past and present, not just patching over the hurt.

Andrea B Denney

Yeah, wholeness isn’t a box you check, or a return to “normal.” It’s more—okay, it’s more like noticing when you pause to breathe deeper, noticing when you’re drawn to the old mug or the garden bench, and letting those become sanctuaries. Memory and possibility sitting together at your kitchen table, both teaching you how to just be—breathe, grieve, notice, laugh—sometimes all at once. Even in art, especially my photography, that’s how I try to honor disappearing places and people. Because just like we preserve legacies in photos, we’re also building our own continuity, our own “time capsules,” in the smallest routines.

Josh Forsh

I mean, to me, your work—capturing that Tennessee light on a worn barn, or a shadow crossing an old road—isn’t just art. It’s a way of saying, “I remember. This mattered.” For listeners who might not take pictures, maybe it’s keeping a keepsake, tending a plant, or writing one sentence a day. This is—wait, let me get this right—it’s how ordinary objects or tasks can become a sanctuary, too? Or am I butchering your metaphor?

Andrea B Denney

No, you’ve got it. Even the shirt you keep, the recipe card stained at the corner—that’s your pillar, your thread, your proof that love and care carried on. You don’t have to do it perfectly; you just have to notice it’s there. And that—honestly, it’s enough.

Josh Forsh

So, whether you make art, write it down, or just fold that shirt with a little more attention—you’re building your own legacy. That’s not nothing, folks. That’s deeply sacred.

Andrea B Denney

It is. And next time, we’ll dig a little more into how these practices can evolve—whether the loss is of a person, a place, or even a version of ourselves. Josh, thank you for holding space with me today. And to everyone listening: you’re not walking through this silent territory alone.

Josh Forsh

Andrea, thank you for your wisdom as always. And thanks, everyone, for letting us sit at your kitchen table or take a walk with you today. We’ll see you next time on Remembrance Record.

Andrea B Denney

Take care, Josh. Take care, everyone. Hold onto your threads.

Josh Forsh

Be gentle with yourselves. Goodbye.