Six Hours Episode 4

In this episode of Take Care Time – The Tales and Exhales of Caregivers, Trina begins to experience something unfamiliar—space. After moving closer to her bakery, the six hours she has while her son attends his day program start to feel different… more usable, more intentional. As her son settles into their new home and finds comfort in his surroundings, Trina realizes she finally has room to focus on herself. From long-overdue doctor’s appointments to stepping into a gym and connecting with other entrepreneurs, she begins the quiet but powerful work of rebuilding her own life. This episode explores a truth many caregivers face: six hours may not be enough—but what you do within them can change everything.

Transcript

0:05

Hello friends and welcome back to Take Care of Time, the Tales and the Exhales of Caregivers. In this series, we are exploring something that sounds simple on the surface. But carries so much weight in real life. Six hours. Six hours is what many caregivers receive when their loved one attends a day program. An adult day program or structured support service, six hours to run a business, six hours to manage a household, six hours to make appointments, six hours to breathe, and for some six hours to remember who they were, who they are outside of caregiving. But here's the question we don't often ask what actually happens inside those six hours. Do they restore us or do they disappear just as quickly as they came? In today's episode, we return to Trina, a mother, a business owner, a caregiver who has spent years building her life around responsibility, structure, and survival. But now something has shifted, not dramatically, not all at once, but enough a new home. A shorter distance, a different rhythm. And for the first time in a long time, Trina is beginning to experience something unfamiliar inside her, inside her day space. Not more time, but more usable time. And what she chooses to do with that space may change everything because caregiving doesn't just take time, it reshapes it. And if we're not careful, it can quietly reshape us too. So take a breath, grab your favorite beverage sit down, whatever you're holding, and even for just a moment and step into the next part of Trina's story because inside these six hours, there's more than just one possibility. Let's begin. the closing happens on a Tuesday, not because Tuesday is special, but because in caregiving, you don't get to choose the perfect day. You choose the day that fits inside the system. It's 9:42 AM Trina signs her name for the final time. The pen feels heavier than it should, not because of paperwork, but because of what the paperwork represents, a decision, a shift, a compression of her entire life into a single block of Miami real estate. By 10:15 AM she's standing inside the small White House again, but this time it's hers. There's no furniture yet, no decorations, no evidence of life beyond the echo of her footsteps against the floor. The rooms feel larger when they're empty, not bigger, just more possible. She walks slowly from the front door to the back to the living room past the narrow kitchen toward the sliding glass door that looks out over the alley. The bakery is visible exactly as it was before. 30 seconds away. Close enough to see. Close enough to reach. Close enough to never really leave. She rested her hand against the glass for years. Distance has been part of her structure. Home here, worked there, caregiving everywhere in between. Now there is no in between, just one space, one radius, one continuous line between roles that used to be separated by time and traffic. Six hours still exists. That hasn't changed. But what happens inside those six hours has, by 1130, she's back at the bakery. No car, no drive, just a short walk across the alley. Juan notices immediately. That was fast. He says, Trina nods. I walked. He looks toward the back door, then back at her. That's going to take some getting used to. He says it is because speed changes perception. What used to feel like a transition now feels immediate. No mental buffer, no shift in identity. Just a step from one responsibility to another. How's it feel, Juan? As Trina pauses, it feels, um, efficient. Efficient is a word that sounds positive, but carries weight. Efficiency removes friction it also removes space. The first week passes quickly. Boxes arrive. Furniture is minimal, functional, a couch, a dining table, a bed, nothing extra. Caregivers rarely built for aesthetics first. They built for function. In the second bedroom, Trina creates a space for Sam Jr. Soft lighting, neutral colors, minimal stimulation. A place where he can regulate when the world feels too loud. From the kitchen window, she can now see the bakery's front entrance from the back porch. She can see the alley and the camera She's always looking at that camera, even though the burglary has been explained, and even though the burglary has been solved, even though the money has been repaid, even though the situation has been resolved, her body doesn't forget. Caregiver instincts don't just turn off because the problem is understood. They stay alert, they scan, they adjust by the second week, the benefits begin to reveal themselves. At 10:30 AM she walks home to grab something she forgot. Five minutes later, she's back at the bakery. No delay, no parking, no interruption. At 12:30 PM she sits in her own kitchen table for lunch. Instead of standing behind the counter at 1:40 PM she checks the time, realizes she still has over an hour before pickup. An hour that used to disappear and transition. Now it exists. fully, clearly available. This is the promise of proximity. Time recovered. Energy preserved. Decisions, simplified. For the first time in years, the six hours feels slightly expanded not longer, but fuller, and then something else begins to happen, something quieter, something less expected. The lines begin to blur at 7:30 PM After closing the bakery, Trina walks home. 30 seconds. No decompression, no separation. Just a arrival. Sam Junior is already inside. Sam. Senior, had bought him home earlier. The same space, the same environment, the same proximity. There is no shift between roles, no moment. That leaves work and enters home. She is both at the same time in the same place. By the third week, she notices the first sign of it. Not exhaustion, not stress. Something's more subtle. She's standing in the kitchen at 8:45 PM washing dishes. The bakery lights are still visible through the window and for a moment, she feels like she never left. Like the day never fully ended. Like six hours extended outward into the rest of her life. Caregiving already removes boundaries, now proximity has erased the rest. Caregivers are often told they need more time, more help, more support, and all of that is true. But what is talked about less often is structure, because sometimes it's not just about how much time you have, it's about where that time lives and what surrounds it. Trina has gained time. But she has lost distance and distance. It turns out, was doing more work than she realized the next night when she locks up the bakery, she walks the short distance home. She glances once more at the alley, the same alley that once held. Uncertainty now holds something else. Familiarity. But familiarity is not always comfort. Sometimes it is exposure. Sometimes it's awareness. Sometimes. It's the quiet realization that when everything is close, everything is always present inside the house. Sam Junior sits at the couch, steady as always. Trina sits down beside him for a moment. Everything is quiet, still contained, and yet something feels unfinished. Not wrong, just unresolved. Because redesigning a life doesn't end with a decision. It begins there. The big move happens on a Saturday, not because it's ideal, but because it's when Sam Sr is available. Trina has purchased some new furniture and a new dining room table. Sometimes caregiving schedules don't often leave room for convenience and you take help when it aligns at 8 0 5. A rental truck idols outside Trina's current home. The Florida heat is already building, pressing against the morning air. Sam Sr. Steps out of the driver's seat and walks around to the back of the truck. I got the smaller one. He says, figured it'd be less to manage Trina, nods less to manage has become a shared language between them. There is no tension in the air, no unresolved edge just familiarity. They move through the house methodically. Picking up boxes that she had left earlier, plus loading up her couch and her new table boxes are labeled with a thick marker Kitchen office. Sam, Junior's room. Everything has a place because everything has to, at one point, Sam Sr. Pauses in the doorway of Sam Junior's room. Watching as Trina carefully lifts a weighted blanket and folds it into the box. You kept that same setup. He says, Trina glances up consistency. She replies, he nods. Yeah, there are no long conversations. No revisiting the past, but there is understanding the kind that only comes from having lived inside the same pressure by noon, the truck is unloaded at the new House., Behind the bakery boxes line, the walls furniture is placed where it needs to be, not where it looks best. The continuation of setting up Sam Junior's room is first, always first because caregivers prioritize stability before anything else. Sam Sr. Adjust the bed frame, stepping back to make sure it's secure. That work, he asked Trina, looks around the room, soft, light, minimum clutter, familiar objects. It works. She says for a moment they both stand there, not as husband and wife, not as something unfinished, but as two people who built something together, that still requires both of them just in different ways. Later that afternoon, after the last box is moved and the truck is returned, Sam Senior, glances at his watch you eaten. He asked. Trina shakes her head. Not really. He nods. Let's get something. It's not a date. It's not framed as anything more than what it is. A pause, a recognition, a quiet acknowledgement of a milestone. They choose a small brunch spot a few blocks away. Outdoor seating, metal chairs, the hum of conversation, blending with traffic and distant music. When the server walks away, Sam Sr. Leans back slightly. So he says, you did it. Trina exhales a small smile I did You always said you wanted your own place. He says she nods. It's just, I just didn't picture it like this. He smiles faintly. I don't think any of us pictured it like this. There's no bitterness in the statement. Just truth. He takes a sip of his coffee. It makes sense though. He adds. Being that close to the bakery, cutting out the drive, Trina nods. It gives me more in side of the six hours. When Sam Jr is at his day program, he studies her for a moment. You've always been good at building around what you have. He says it's not a compliment. Not exactly. It's an observation. One that carries history had to be, she replies before he can respond. A voice interrupts gently from behind them. Hey, I thought that was you. They both turn. Marlena stands beside the table, sunglasses pushed up in her hair, a light smile crossing her face, trina, she says, I didn't expect to see you here. Trina's blinks. Surprise Marlena. She gestures towards Sam Sr. This is Sam. Sam Senior. Nods politely. Marlena helped me with the house. Trina adds. Ah, Sam Sr. Standing slightly. Then I guess I should thank you. Marlina smiles. She did all the work. She says. I opened the door. There's a brief pause. The kind that happens when people recognize they're connected in ways that they didn't anticipate you live nearby. Trina asked Marlene nods just a few streets over. She says, close enough to make the six hour shuffle manageable. I lived, very near Terry Sam, senior glances between them six hours. Yeah, he ask Trina nods program time Marlina adds. It's amazing what you can fit into six hours when everything is close. Sam Sr. Exhales quietly. Yeah, he says, or what you have to fit into it. That lands, because all three of them understand different roles, different angles. Same constraint for a moment, they stand in shared understanding. Then Marlena steps back, I'll let you two finish, she says, but congratulations, Trina. It's a smart move. Thank you. Trina replies. As Marlena walks away, Sam Senior sits back down small world. He says, that's Miami. Trina replies. He studies her again, this time more thoughtfully. You're building something. He says. She looks at him. I'm trying. He nods once. Well, he says picking up his coffee. I hope it gives you what you need, not what she wants, not what she imagined, what she needs, and for where she is in life. That might be enough Trina wraps her hands around her coffee for a moment before speaking as if deciding how much to say and how to say it. The break in, we figured it out. She begins her voice steady but quieter now. Sam Sr. Looks up immediately attentive. She explains, simply not dramatic, just factual, how it wasn't random, how it was connected back to someone indirectly through the day program. How it end up being a situation of desperation more than intention. She tells him about the note about the alley, about how the pieces came together in a way she hadn't expected. Sam Sr. Listens without interrupting his expression, shifting from concern to something more reflective. When she finishes, he exhales slowly, so not as random as it felt. She says Trina shakes her head. Nope. She replies just closer than I realize. The following Monday. Trina pulls into the day program parking lot from a new direction, a shorter drive now almost unfamiliar in its efficiency. The routine is the same, but the path has changed and that alone feels significant inside the cool air steady. Predictable. Teri is at the front desk just as she always is for a brief moment. There's a flicker of something unspoken between them. Not discomfort exactly, but awareness. Teri recovers first, offering the same professional warmth she always carried. Morning, Trina, she says, sliding the sign in sheet forward Trina returns the greeting. Her tone, calm. Grounded. We finished moving this weekend. She adds, almost casually, Terry nods a small smile forming closer to the bakery. She asks. Trina confirms it yep, that's the house that'll make a difference. Trina says, and this time the words carry more weight than before, not just convenience, understanding. Trina signs the sheet. Glances briefly down the hallway where Sam Junior is already settling in to his day, and for the first time since the move, she feels it clearly not just the change in distance, but the shift in structure. Six hours are about to in again, but now everything around them is different as Trina begins to step away from the desk. Teri ask again. Softer this time. Not for the room. Just for her Trina, she says, and there's a pause that carries more than the word itself. Trina turns back. Teri's hands rest slightly on the counter. Steady, but intentional. I meant what I said about, you know, before you made the decision. She continues. There's no need to explain. What's she's referring to the alley, the note, the truth that came out of something messy and unexpected. Trina studies her for a moment, Then nods once I know she replies and she does not. Everything about the situation sits easily, but understanding has replaced uncertainty. Teri exhales quietly some of the weight, leaving her shoulders. He's, he's working through it. She adds carefully trying to fix it what he can. Trina nods again she says there's no forgiveness speech, not dramatic resolution. Just two women who understand how quickly things can shift when people are stretched too thin. Teri offers a small, genuine smile. It's a good move. She says glancing toward the direction of the bakery as if she can see it from there being that close. Trina follows the glance, even though the building is visible, we'll see. She replies and with that, she turns toward the hallway stepping back into the rhythm of her day, carrying with her. Not just the weight of what happened, but the quiet understanding that sometimes the difference between risk and support is simply knowing who's standing nearby. Over the next few weeks, Trina begins to settle into her rhythm of her new home. What once felt like a bold decision solely becomes structure? Six hours that used to feel rushed and fragmented, now stretched in a different way, not longer, but more usable. She notices it in small moments at first. Fewer interruptions, less time lost in transition, more done without feeling like she's racing the clock. The bakery runs smoother. Her thoughts feel clearer. And at home. Something else shifts. Sam Junior takes to the new space. Almost immediately. His room is calm, predictable. His belongings arranged in a way that makes sense to him. The backyard becomes a quiet extension of that comfort, a place where he can move. Pause. Regulate and when he is content, he needs less from her moment to moment, less prompting, less redirection, less constant watchfulness, and in that space something small but meaningful. Trina finds something she hasn't had in a long time, not just time for the bakery, not just time to manage responsibilities, but time for herself in the fourth month after the move, something else shifts. Not the house, not the bakery, but in Trina is subtle. At first, a quiet realization that six hours she's been given no longer needs to be filled entirely with catching up. For years, every available moment had been assigned work, errands, appointments for everyone else there had never been space left over, but now there is. And for the first time in a long time, she doesn't know exactly what to do with it. It starts with something small or rather something she's been putting off for years. At 10:20 AM sitting at the kitchen table with her phone in her hand, Trina scrolls through a list of providers, primary care, annual checkups, routine blood work, words that used to feel optional or at least postponable. She taps a number. The line rings. Good morning, Dr. Patel's office. Trina hesitates just for a second. Hi. She says I'd like to schedule a physical, there's the sound of typing on the other end. Of course. When was your last visit? Trina Pauses. She does the math silently. It's, it's been years. Ugh, it's been years. She admits. That's okay. The receptionist replies warmly. We'll get you back on track. Back on track. The phrase lands differently than she expects, as if she had been off course and hadn't even realized it. The day of the appointment feels unfamiliar. She sits in the waiting room, hands folded on her lap, looking around at the people, scrolling on their phones, flipping through magazines, existing in a space designed for maintenance, not crisis. Not urgency. Maintenance. When the nurse calls her name, she follows her down the hallway. Blood pressure, weight questions. Any recent changes to stress levels? Trina almost laughs. She says. Yes, she says The nurse smiles. Better or worse, Trina considers it different. She replies. That feels more accurate. Later sitting across from the doctor, she answers questions she hasn't been asked in years. Sleep, diet, energy levels. How often are you taking time for yourself? The doctor asks, Trina pauses. There's no judgment in the question, just curiosity more than I used to. She says, the doctor nods that matters. You can't pour from an empty cup. Trina has heard this phrase before. But this time it doesn't feel like advice. It feels like instruction. A few days later, she finds herself standing outside a small gym, less than 10 minutes from the house. Another decision, another use of six hours. The sign reads Membership specials. No contract. No contract. Flexible, adaptable. The language speaks directly to her life. Inside the air smells like rubber mats and effort machines hum quietly. A woman at the front desk looks up. First time she asks. Trina nods. Yeah, the woman smiles. I'm Kayla. Want a quick tour. Trina hesitates, then nods again. Kayla walks her through the space, treadmills, weights, stretching area. Nothing overwhelming, nothing complicated. Just options. You don't have to do everything Kayla says. You just have to start. Start that word again. A week later, Trina stands on a treadmill. The belt moves slowly beneath her feet. At first, she feels out of place, aware of her body, aware of the unfamiliar environment, and then something shifts her mind quiets not completely but enough. No one is asking her a question. No one needs anything. No one needs something. No one is waiting for 20 minutes. She's just moving. And for the first time in a long time, her body feels like it belongs to her again, the ideal comes up from a flyer on the bakery counter Local Women's Group Weekly meetup. She almost throws it away almost, but something about the word local. Makes her pause, close, accessible, possible. Within six hours. The meeting is held in a shared workspace not far from the bakery. At 11:00 AM She walks in a circle of women, sit around a large table, laptops open, coffee cups, scattered conversations, mid flow. A woman looks up, hi, you must be new, she says, Trina nods. I own the bakery down the street. Immediate recognition. Oh, sweet Rise. I've been there. Another woman says that simple statement lands because for so long, Trina has existed in her business. Now she is being seen as a part of something. The conversation shifts naturally. Revenue challenges, staffing issues, marketing ideas, but also burnout, balance, boundaries. How do you manage everything? One woman asks her. Trina pauses. The room is quiet. She thinks about the house, the six hours, the structure. I start trying to manage everything she says Slowly. I started building around what I actually have. The room leans in slightly. What does that look like? Someone asks Trina exhales, it looks like making decisions that don't make sense to everyone else. She says. It looks like choosing proximity over perfection. It looks like protecting your time even when it's not enough. There's a moment of silence then nods. Understanding, not sympathy, recognition. When the meeting ends, one of the women walks beside her toward the door. Are you coming back next week? Trina? Smiles? Yeah, I think I am that afternoon, walking back toward the bakery, something feels different, not externally. The alley is still there. The bakery still hums. The six hours still tick forward, but internally there is space, not because she has more time, but because she is finally using some of it for herself, and that changes everything what Trina is learning is something many caregivers spend years trying to understand. We think we need more time, more hours in the day, more help, more space to breathe. And yes, more time would help, but what we often need just as much is permission. Permission to exist inside our own lives, not just as caregivers, not just as problem solvers, not just as the person, everyone depends on, but as a person. For so long trina's time belonged to everyone else, her son, her business, the system she had to navigate just to keep everything running. And somewhere in the middle of all that, she disappeared. Not completely, but enough. Enough that her needs became optional. Her health being delayed, her rest being negotiable, her identity became functional. But something changed, not because she suddenly had more time, but because she started making different decisions inside the time she already had. She went to the doctor, not because it was urgent, but because she mattered. She stepped in the gym, not because she had extra energy, but because she needed to rebuild it. She sat at a table with other women building businesses and said out loud, this is what my life looks like. And in doing that, she gave herself something more. she gave herself something. Many caregivers never take ownership, not of her responsibilities. She already had that but of her life because caregiving can quietly convince you that your role is all you are, that your time is not your own, that your needs can wait, but in truth, if you're going to be there for the people who love you. You have to be there. Not exhausted. Not depleted, not surviving, but present whole, sustained. Six hours may not be enough, but what you build inside those six hours can change everything. A couple of things before we close today, I wanna take a moment. If you are listening to this and thinking, I don't even know where I would begin, I understand that. Because when you spent so much time taking care of someone else, taking care of yourself can feel unfamiliar. That's exactly why I created the Take Care Time Respite box, not as another task, not as something else to manage, but as something intentional you can step into during the time you already have. Each box is thoughtfully curated with caregivers in mind. It could be a journal. To help you process a puzzle or an activity to give your mind a break, something calming for your body, and small reminders woven throughout that you matter too. Because those six hours shouldn't disappear into survival mode. They should hold something that belongs to you. You can learn more about our current box@takecaretime.com. Six hours is precious and you deserve something inside those hours that is just yours. Secondly, before we end today, I would like to hear from you, what have you done with the time that you have been given? Have you started taking care of yourself again? Have you made a change that helped you breathe a little easier, or are you still trying to figure out where to begin? You are not alone in that. If Trina's story resonates with you, I invite you to share your own caregiving journey with me. You can reach me at podcast@takecaretime.com. I would love to hear from you with your permission. Your story may be shared in a future episode because caregiver stories deserve to be heard. Not hidden. This series is about six hours, but more than that, it's about what you choose to do inside of them. Please note that this episode features reenactments and dramatized details. While in most cases the exact verbatim dialogue may not be known, all dramatizations are grounded in thorough research and crafted to honor the stories shared to respect the privacy and confidentiality of the individuals involved names, and some identifying details have been changed. Until next week, take care.