I’ll Go On

The story isn’t just about caregiving.  It’s about the moment my hands told the truth before I had sung a note.

Anger meets Exhaustion

A couple of days after I “retired” from a career that spanned decades, I sat down at the piano. I was exhausted — physically, emotionally, spiritually. My hands fell onto the notes in the key of A: A, C#, E. Then the melody came almost without thinking: A A B C# E C# B A B. And with it, the first words I didn’t even know I was ready to say:

“I take care of you, day after day. Hiding the truth, what would they say?”

We had already been on this dementia journey for a few years, and still he didn’t want anyone to know. The shame around that diagnosis used to be heavy. And me — I was angry. Angry that I had to stop working. Angry that he couldn’t think clearly anymore. Angry that I was doing his chores and mine, plus caring for him around the clock.

Then the long overdue line came:

“I can’t go on this way anymore. I’m not that strong for the next tug of war.”

As I wrote that line, something in me broke open. I exhaled — one of those long, tired exhales that comes from deeper than your lungs. I remember closing my eyes, letting my head fall back, then forward and down. It was the first honest release I’d had in months.

I didn’t think it was unfair. It was just my humanity reacting to something I didn’t yet know how to cope with. But two days earlier, I’d had my first counseling session. She saw the anger immediately and gently asked me to respond with compassion — the kind God shows us, the kind we’re meant to show others.

That stayed with me. And as I sat there, I realized something hard and holy: I was the one who would get to “go on.” He would not. His life as he knew it was slipping away, and I had to watch.

“Life wasn’t supposed to turn out this way, Still I go on, while you fade away.”

I would survive. And so I would look for hope — even in the grief.

“What has become of all our dreams? Faded and torn, ripped at the seams.”

I don’t remember crying, but I know I felt the sadness in those words. They came from a place I didn’t have language for yet — the grief of watching a shared life change into an unfamiliar shape.

But still… I would go on.

I’ll Go On grew out of that shift — the moment I realized that acknowledging the reality of caregiving didn’t mean giving up. It meant accepting what was true and choosing to keep moving forward anyway.

It’s funny, really.  Recently I ran across my original notebook from that songwriting day — no erasures anywhere. It’s as if the song came like a cloudburst: emotional, spilling straight from my heart onto the paper. So cathartic, releasing the weight I’d been carrying.

The Quiet Truth

There’s also a quiet truth in this song that caregivers understand deeply: the person you care for may not be able to go on the way you can. And the demands of caregiving are such that many caregivers leave this life before their loved one. That reality stays with you. Taking care of yourself is choosing to go on.

And so,  I choose to make each day as good as I can for both of us. I choose to look for the small things that give me hope in my own future. And I choose to keep going — not out of obligation, but out of love.

I’ll Go On is the sound of that choice.

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If you’re walking a caregiving road, I hope this story reminds you that you’re not alone. Feel free to share it with someone who might need to hear it. Perhaps you have found yourself in this season.  Should you ever want to share your own story, I’m here to listen. Reach out through the contact page and I’ll email back.

© Jodi Bloom, July 2026

always find the hope

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Watch to the lyric video on YouTube