In my years of ministry and collaborative research, I have encountered an incredibly heartbreaking phenomenon in our faith communities: the invisible caregiver. These are the mothers, fathers, spouses, and friends who act as the primary support systems for individuals struggling with severe mental health challenges. They are the ones managing medication schedules, navigating doctor appointments, and staying awake until 3:00 AM to talk a loved one through a trauma trigger.
Yet, because the spotlight of crisis is naturally on the person who is visibly suffering, the caregiver quietly recedes into the background. And in many church circles, caregivers are subtly expected to be untouchable statues of perfection—spiritual superheroes who never run on fumes, never complain, and never fall apart.
I know what it feels like to live with that terrifying isolation. I spent more than two decades in pastoral ministry feeling as though I had to remain completely “whole” for everyone else. There was an unspoken pressure to have the answers, to keep it together, to project strength even during seasons when I was carrying my own burdens. Some struggles felt too risky to share. The fear wasn’t simply being misunderstood; it was the possibility that ordinary human battles—marital difficulties, concerns about a child, anxiety, depression, exhaustion, or discouragement—might become subjects of speculation, gossip, or questions about one’s fitness for ministry. So, like many pastors I know, I learned to keep much of my inner world carefully guarded, and that kind of loneliness can take a toll.
It is a devastating way to live. When you are constantly pouring out care, strength, and theological reassurance to everyone around you, your own soul begins to experience a desperate, hollow emptiness.
To every caregiver reading this I ask: Who is caring for you?
When we look at the history of the Church—the true Church with a capital C—we find an entire company of saints who knew exactly what it felt like to be overwhelmed by the burdens of this life. Giants of the faith like Charles Spurgeon, Henri Nouwen, and Mother Teresa were not immune to deep emotional distress or spiritual dryness. They wrestled to find God within a twisted, painful world, and they frequently reached points of total, absolute exhaustion.
If these spiritual giants needed to step away, to weep, and to be cared for, why do we think we can run on empty forever?
Jesus never commanded us to love our neighbors instead of ourselves; the baseline of the gospel is receiving the radical, unconditional love of the Father so completely that it naturally overflows to those around us. When Jesus saw His disciples exhausted from the relentless demands of ministry and the crushing needs of the crowds, He didn’t tell them to pray harder or push through the fatigue. He gently said, “Come away with me to a quiet place and get some rest.”
He offers that exact same gentle invitation to you today.
If you are a caregiver running on fumes, please hear me: taking care of your own mental, emotional, and spiritual health is not a betrayal of the person you are supporting. It is not selfish. In fact, it is an act of profound stewardship and faith.
David Hoskins and I compiled a 365-day, morning and evening devotional precisely because we realized that both the hurting and the caregiver need a predictable, guilt-free daily rhythm of grace. We designed a simple, four-fold rhythm—In Word, In Thought, In Reflection, and In Deed—to help ground your spirit in just a few minutes every morning and evening. It’s a space where you don’t have to be the expert, the savior, or the strong one. You can simply be a child of God resting at the Father’s side. You cannot carry someone else out of a valley if you are collapsing from starvation yourself. Allow yourself the grace to be human. Let go of the religious expectation that you must be unbreakable. Step into the sanctuary of God’s love today and let the Father care for you for a while.
In our book, Sanctuary Devotional: A Mental Health Journey Towards Hope & Healing due out this fall, David Hoskins and I hoped to create a literal sanctuary for both the person who is struggling and the one who is walking beside them. You do not have to pretend to be whole while your internal world is fracturing under the weight of suffering. I hope you’ll order a copy for yourself and as a blessing for others.
DARIN MICHAEL SHAW 