If you've visited our little corner of the internet lately, you've probably noticed something: quiet "shelves," sparse blog posts, an unusual stillness where there's usually the gentle buzz of soapmaking and candle creation happening from my kitchen island. Today, I want to share why—not because explanations are owed, but because this season has taught me things about love, sacrifice, and the unexpected ways life calls us to show up that feel too important not to share.
When Fear Looks Familiar
Last November, I began to notice significant changes in a dear friend. Small things at first—inability to sign his name, repeated questions, moments of confusion that seemed to multiply like autumn leaves gathering in corners. By February, those small things had become big things. Memory wasn't just fading; it was taking with it his ability to do almost all daily tasks, to navigate the world safely, to feel secure in his own skin.
I recognized the look in his eyes because I'd worn it myself. Back in the early 2000s, when I was diagnosed with MS, I remember that exact expression—the fear, the anger, the profound sense of feeling unsafe and alone in a world that suddenly felt foreign. I was lucky then. My doctors advised me to leave my high-pressure corporate job, and in the therapeutic rhythm of making soap and candles, I found not just healing but purpose. That creative sanctuary became this little business you know today.
But now, watching my friend navigate his own devastating diagnosis, I saw my younger self reflected back. The difference was, he had no family in Florida. No built-in safety net. No one to sit in doctor's offices or figure out what comes next. He was the kind of friend who used to stay with my cat when I traveled for business—reliable, kind, the sort of person who shows up without fanfare when you need them most. People who know me well know I don't trust just anyone with my cat.
Now it was my turn to show up.
The Hardest Season
The decision to step away from production didn't happen overnight. Through the winter months, I tried to balance both—caregiving and creating. My friend would sit at the kitchen island, wanting to be part of the process, finding comfort in watching the familiar rhythm of measuring oils and melting wax. But as his condition progressed, the workspace that had once been my sanctuary became a minefield of dangers. Hot wax, lye solutions, volatile organic compounds—things that had become second nature to me were now potential hazards I couldn't risk.
In March, with the exception of a handful of custom orders from longtime and loyal customers, I made the call to fully step back.
What followed were the hardest and most illuminating months of my life. Dementia caregiving, I learned, is 24/7 in ways you can't fully understand until you're living it. It means door alarms and special locks, bed rails and constant vigilance. It means learning that short-term memory and long-term memory are stored in separate areas of the brain. It means learning how he can't access the answers to open-ended questions, but he can confirm a choice when presented with two options. It means accepting you will need to repeat things over and over again. It means learning not to correct but to redirect.
It means learning that safety isn't just physical—it's emotional, too. It means learning terms like "cognitive reserve" and "sundowning." And understanding how damage to the amygdala in the brain—the place that delivers the "fight or flight" response, the immediate, instinctive reaction to perceived threats—can be triggered by even the smallest of stresses, causing fear or anger and aggression that overrides logical reasoning, even in safe situations. It means learning how modeling desired behavior works much better than directing or asking for it. The more love you give, the gentle touches, the calm voice, the soft reassurances, the patient repetition, the more calm and responsive he becomes. It means observing the calming magic of familiar music at low volume. You discover that while he can't remember, amazingly he can still reminisce. He may not remember who I am some days, but he remembers the words to most of the Eagles' Greatest Hits. And he likes to sing them with me. You learn to go where they are because they can't come to where you are.
Most importantly, you learn to remind yourself, especially on the hardest days: I'm doing the best I can. And so is he.
Lessons in the Dark
This season stripped away everything non-essential and showed me what really matters. It taught me that love isn't always convenient or profitable or easy to explain to others who wonder why you'd take on such responsibility for "just a friend." It taught me that sometimes the most important work we do happens in the quiet moments—helping someone feel safe, being present when the world feels scary, offering consistency and routine when everything else is shifting.
I learned practical things too: how to navigate healthcare systems, legal systems, how to create routines that bring comfort, how to recognize the difference between can't and won't. I learned that patience isn't a virtue you either have or don't—it's a muscle that strengthens with use, even when you think you've reached your limit.
But perhaps most surprisingly, I learned about the profound privilege of being trusted with someone's vulnerability. To be the person he looks for when he's scared, to be the familiar face in an increasingly unfamiliar world—there's a sacred responsibility in that I hadn't experienced since my now-adult son was a toddler. It's something I never expected at this point in my life.
Seeds of Return
Recently, I've been blessed with some additional help, which means I can catch my breath and start thinking about returning to my kitchen island. The truth is, I'm feeling exhausted both physically and emotionally, and more than a little rusty. Dementia caregiving isn’t exhausting simply because we do too much, but also because we feel too much. It's been months since I've measured out a soap recipe or tested a new fragrance blend. My hands remember the motions, but there's uncertainty there too.
And yet, as we move toward August and my beloved fall season approaches, I feel something stirring. The call of autumn scents—fallen leaves, warm spices, the comforting embrace of seasonal fragrances that feel like coming home. There's something about this time of year that always renewed my creative spirit, and even now, tired as I am, I feel its pull.
What Comes Next
This experience has changed me, and I suspect it will change what I create going forward. There's a deeper understanding now of what comfort really means, what sanctuary actually provides, what it feels like to need the simple presence of something beautiful and familiar when everything else feels uncertain.
When I return to creating—and I will return—it will be with hands that have learned new ways of caring, a heart that understands more about what people need when life gets hard, and a renewed appreciation for the community that has patiently waited while I tended to what mattered most.
The "shelves" may have been quiet, but the learning has been loud. The inventory may have been low, but the love—for my friend, for this craft, for all of you who understand that sometimes life calls us away from what we planned so we can show up for what's needed—that has never been higher.
Thank you for your patience during this season. Thank you for understanding that sometimes the most important work happens away from our businesses, in the quiet spaces where we tend to each other with the same care we put into everything we create.
Fall is coming, and with it, new possibilities. I can't wait to share them with you.
With love and gratitude,
Beryl Anne Coder
