Friends, I want to share something that happened this past Sunday. I wasn’t able to attend church in person at Edge UMC, so I watched the service on Facebook Live instead. As I was watching, an idea came to me — what if Mighty Caregivers across the globe worshiped together in real time, even when we can’t be in the building? Each week, we’ll gather online to join Pastor Patti Aupperlee and the Edge UMC church family, where the Mighty Caregivers Ministry thrives in Groveland, Florida. 🕊 Service starts at 11:00 AM EST🌍 Open to Mighty Caregivers everywhere💬 A space to share prayers, reflections, and encouragement during the service. Join us on Facebook: Edge UMC Facebook Page Mighty Live is about worshiping together — wherever we are.

Mental Health Journal — Entry One Something I notice often in mental health work: Many people aren’t overwhelmed because life is too hard. They’re overwhelmed because they don’t feel safe enough to slow down. They keep functioning. They stay responsible. They hold everything together. But their nervous system never truly rests. So here’s a gentle question: •What happens inside you when you finally pause and what do you think your mind is trying to protect you from? If you feel like sharing, I’d love to read your reflections, only what feels safe . From experience, this question usually reveals something important, not something broken. If you feel comfortable, share your reflection. Awareness is often the first form of care.

I’m Jeremy, your Jigsaw Passport USA Pilot, and I’m excited to welcome you aboard this shared adventure with Jigsaw Passport Global Pilot @Leeanne Hurren 🧩✈️ I’m based in Groveland, Florida, and like many of you, I wear a few different hats in life —✨ Caregiver advocate✨ Community builder✨ Creative connector✨ Founder of Mighty Caregivers✨ Occasional Uber driver✨ And now… Jigsaw Passport USA Pilot At my core, I love creating spaces where people can slow down, feel seen, and reconnect — with themselves and with each other. Some of my most meaningful insights have come during quiet Uber rides, listening to caregivers, seniors, and everyday people share their stories from the backseat. Those moments have taught me how powerful it is to pause and truly listen. A quote I try to live by, from Desmond Tutu:“ My humanity is bound up in yours, for we can only be human together.” It’s a reminder that loving others—fully and openly—isn’t optional; it’s how we become our best selves. Fun fact ✨Both of my parents were ministers — which makes me a PK² (preacher’s kid, twice over). Growing up in church shaped my heart for community, service, and creating spaces where everyone belongs. Jigsaw Passport USA is all about shared experiences, creativity at home, and enjoying the journey one puzzle piece at a time. Whether you’re here for the puzzles, the stories, or the sense of belonging — you’re in the right place. Start your journey with our Jigsaw Passport Travel Agent at https://www.skool.com/jigsaw-passport-6219/about?ref=7e89fda9415b410e92e6a1b4fd4461a4 I’m really glad you’re here. Let’s taxi down the runway together 🧩✈️💙

I work in a mental health inpatient residential community. Every day, I walk alongside people who are rebuilding their lives with very limited income and resources. For many of my clients, even basic necessities—like clothing—are hard to come by. Recently, I lost a significant amount of weight, and my closet quietly told a story of change. Instead of packing those clothes away or dropping them off somewhere anonymous, I brought them to work. I placed eight large bags of clothing on tables and invited my clients to look through them. What happened next was something I won’t forget. There was laughter. Smiles. Gentle teasing. People trying on jackets, holding shirts up to the mirror, asking one another, “Does this look okay?” The room felt lighter. For a moment, it wasn’t about diagnoses, treatment plans, or struggles—it was about dignity, choice, and joy. Now, when I see my clients walking through the halls wearing clothes I once wore, my heart feels full. They wear them with pride. They appreciate them. And they remind me that having clothes you feel good in isn’t a small thing—it’s deeply human. It’s about being seen, valued, and comfortable in your own skin. This experience stayed with me because it was so simple—and so powerful. Please remember: there are people in our communities who need clothes. Sometimes what no longer fits us can become a source of confidence, comfort, and happiness for someone else. And sometimes, sharing in that way changes us just as much as it helps them.

I pulled up to a medical office complex and watched as a woman made her way toward my car. She moved slowly, deliberately—like someone carrying more than just a purse. It was the kind of posture I’ve learned to recognize over the years—the posture of someone hauling invisible weight. When she slid into the back seat, she let out a sigh that filled the car. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just honest. Her voice was tired but clear, and her words hung in the air like a quiet plea. I caught her eyes in the rearview mirror—exhausted, but still searching for something light. Something human. I asked what she did at the facility. “I’m a caregiver,” she said. “I work with people living with dementia. There’s so much going on at work—wandering, sundowning, confusion, heartbreak. I love them. I really do. But today?” She paused and shook her head. “Today I need a break and a laugh.” I smiled. “You’re in the right car. I’ve spent years working in senior living. I get it.” She looked relieved. Seen. “Okay,” I said, without hesitation, “here’s one for you. Why did the chicken cross the playground?” She paused, curious. “I don’t know… why?” “To get to the other slide.” For a split second, there was silence. Then she burst out laughing—not a polite chuckle, but the kind of laugh that bubbles up from somewhere deep and forgotten. The kind that surprises even the person laughing. “That’s so dumb,” she said between giggles, wiping her eyes. “But it’s exactly what I needed.” From there, the car turned into a comedy club on wheels. We swapped stories—the kind only caregivers truly understand. She told me about a resident in memory care who once insisted I was her long-lost nephew and made me promise to take her to the circus. About a gentleman who serenades staff with Elvis songs every morning, complete with hip shakes and finger guns. We laughed about how dementia rewrites reality—and how sometimes the kindest thing you can do is step into that reality instead of correcting it. We joked about the endless supply of cookies in break rooms, caffeine-fueled survival tactics, and the universal truth that every care team has at least one person who swears by essential oils for everything. We laughed because laughter was the one medicine she hadn’t run out of. By the time we reached her destination—a local diner where she planned to treat herself to pie and silence—her shoulders had lifted. Her eyes sparkled. She looked lighter. Freer. Like someone who had just remembered what it felt like to breathe. I watched her walk inside and sat there for a moment, thinking about what had just happened. Laughter isn’t just relief. It’s resistance. It’s how caregivers reclaim a piece of themselves in the chaos. How do they remind themselves they’re still human? Still whole. Still worthy of joy. That day, the back seat wasn’t just a ride. It was a release. And sometimes, the best care we can offer isn’t advice or answers— It’s a good laugh and a safe place to land. Reflection Caregiving is heavy work. It holds grief, responsibility, unpredictability, and constant vigilance. But woven through that weight is something just as powerful—humor. Not because the work is funny, but because laughter becomes a lifeline. In caregiving spaces, laughter isn’t disrespectful. It’s survival. It’s how caregivers keep going when logic fails, plans unravel, and emotions overflow. It’s a reminder that joy can still exist—even in the middle of hard. This ride reminded me that sometimes people don’t need solutions. They need a moment where their nervous system can unclench—a place where it’s safe to laugh, even at the absurdity of it all. And sometimes, healing sounds like giggles echoing in the back seat of a car. Questions to Sit With When was the last time you laughed freely—without guilt or explanation? How does humor show up (or disappear) in your caregiving journey? What moments of levity help you feel human again? Who offers you a safe space to laugh when the weight feels heavy? And how might you permit yourself to seek joy—not as escape, but as care? Because laughter isn’t a luxury for caregivers. It’s medicine.