I Closed My Yoga Studio to Reopen My Mother’s Life

Rin Sinclair McLaughlin turned her healing space into a sanctuary of survival, where caregiving, poetry, and breath intertwine.

By Rin Sinclair McLaughlin via Well Beings Share Your Caregiving Story

Hello, my name is Rin Sinclair McLaughlin, and I am a full-time caregiver to my disabled and terminally ill mother. This role is one that I have held on and off throughout my life; however, never to this magnitude as it is now 24/7. My mother has both physical and mental health ailments that need ongoing support and care. 

In order to grant my mother the care she rightfully deserves, I chose to close my in-home yoga studio and transform it into my mother’s room and healing space. The journey has been one of my mother’s rebirth. She was hospitalized 10 times and on the brink of death 5 of those times, which has led to her having to relearn many of the functions we take for granted due to her lung disease progression; ie. Walking, breathing, talking while being mindful of her breath, etc. 

We navigate respiratory failure often and have machines that can help her to come out of it at home. As we navigate these often terrifying moments, I am always reminded that others go through these experiences alone, and I say a blessing of gratitude that the universe afforded me the ability to walk this road with her. 

As a release, I often write poetry to ease the strain of this role, which is often riddled with intense emotions and isolation due to the long hours of monitoring and the intensity of her daily needs. Yet, no matter how hard the road is, I wouldn’t make a different choice if offered a reprieve. I simply wish the world offered more of a community for caregivers, as we are living each day for two human beings, often exhausted, lonely, and with little time to care for our needs. 

Below is a poem that I wrote to describe the experience of her learning how to walk and move independently again. It has taken months and a tremendous amount of patience, strength, and time from each of us to make this possible; many professionals were naysayers and did not share our belief that she would build the lung strength back to walk again…oh, how they underestimated my mother’s strength and my tenacity.

 My mother has, in fact, learned how to walk again, and her voice is stronger than ever, as is her belief in her abilities and self, and soon she will navigate learning how to maneuver down the stairs so that she will no longer be housebound. Though my role as caregiver will not cease, her ability to be more independent is growing stronger by the day.

Tethered Strings

Body autonomy is such an important thing, and yet I find myself pulling at her strings.

She can not move or shift without me.

There’s this weight pressing down on her that makes it impossible to breathe, so I lift the strings and bend the knees, prop the chest, open her heart center,
and demand she breathe. I beg the skies and all that protects to ease the weight pressing on her chest to alleviate the crushing of her heart. 

Right, left, I pull the strings, she gasps, and I hold her up as she crumples, the weight is too much, and she can not breathe.

We sit. 

She’s crumpled, I’m stoic and sturdy, for if my wooden parts collapse, then who will man the strings and help her to breathe. 

We sit for hours these wooden puppet beings until she no longer gasps, and her heart is calm until I can gently lift the strings, right arm left arm without harm. 

Her head is heavy, so I prop that up too so she can gaze out the window of the shuttered world we have fallen into.

I pull the strings and help her to stand. She wobbles and wavers, so I reach out my hand. 

I hold her back steady and open her chest breathe deep I say, push out your tit’s, stand tall and firm into the earth,
I’ll do the work you just breathe, breathe mama and believe. 

She can not move a muscle as she shakes in the space, so I gently bend the knee, right left, then lower her into her place. 

We sit together, holding space as our wooden eyes cry tears of anguish joy and exhaustion. 

I rigid with my back to hers, holding her up as her body softens. 

As the sun rises so will you I say, but for today let me support you as you rest, let me remind you to breathe
and to cradle your head as you remind yourself in 24 hrs you will try again.

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