Only as Capable as My Caregivers Allow Me to Be

There’s a kind of surrender that doesn’t come from weakness — it comes from being forced to face what can’t be changed, no matter how badly you want to fight it. I live every day knowing that my ability to move, to feel human, to simply exist in this world, depends entirely on the hands of others. Hands I don’t have. Choices I can’t make. Movements I can’t control. It’s a strange kind of captivity — being conscious, driven, creative, and still unable to reach out and do something as simple as scratch an itch or plug in a charger.

People like to tell me I’m strong. They say it like it’s meant to be a compliment — a badge of honor for surviving. But the truth is, strength doesn’t always feel noble. Sometimes it just feels like being trapped in a body that won’t cooperate while the rest of the world moves on, assuming that if I just tried harder, thought more positively, or prayed a little longer, I could somehow change my reality.

What they don’t see is how fragile independence becomes when it depends on other people showing up — not just physically, but mentally, emotionally, and with genuine understanding. I am only as capable as my caregivers allow me to be. That’s not self-pity; it’s the truth. And when that support falters — when care becomes mechanical or love grows impatient — everything crumbles.

It’s hard to keep explaining that I can’t just will my body into movement, or that no amount of grit can erase the nausea, the pain, the exhaustion that follows me day and night. It’s harder still when the ones closest to me stop listening, because accepting what I live with would mean facing their own discomfort.

There’s a quiet kind of giving up that happens — not of life, but of the illusion that I can control it. I’ve learned that acceptance isn’t peace; it’s just understanding the limits of your own power. I can’t fix what’s broken. I can only keep breathing, hoping someone finally sees that I’m not asking for sympathy — just understanding.

Image Description for Blog:
A pen and ink illustration with a soft watercolor background in maroon and tan tones, depicting a quadriplegic figure sitting in reflection. Surrounding them are faint, ghostlike hands — some helping, some pulling away — symbolizing the fragile balance of dependence and control. The words “I am only as capable as my caregivers allow me to be” are faintly blended into the watercolor, echoing the emotional weight of the piece.