The Heart of Home Care: What It’s Really Like Working With Seniors as a PSW

 

Working with seniors in their homes is one of those experiences that quietly reshapes the way you see people, aging, and even yourself. As a Personal Support Worker (PSW), you’re not just stepping into someone’s house — you’re stepping into their life story. Every visit is a mix of practical support, meaningful connection, and the kind of small moments that remind you why this work matters.

Building Trust, One Visit at a Time

Home care is deeply personal. Unlike a facility where routines are standardized, a client’s home reflects who they are — their memories, their habits, their culture, and the things that bring them comfort. Trust grows through consistency, respect, and taking the time to understand what makes each person feel safe and valued.

The Work Is Practical — But It’s Also Emotional

On paper, the job sounds straightforward: personal hygiene, mobility assistance, meal prep, medication reminders, light housekeeping. But anyone who has done this work knows it’s so much more than a checklist. These everyday tasks become opportunities to support independence, not take it away.

Communication Is Everything

Many seniors face challenges like hearing loss, memory changes, or anxiety about aging. A PSW communicates with clarity, patience, and empathy. For seniors who live alone, PSWs often become a key source of social connection — a friendly conversation, a shared laugh, or even a quiet moment can make a huge difference.

Being the Eyes and Ears of the Care Team

Because PSWs spend so much time with clients, they’re often the first to notice changes in health or behaviour. Reporting concerns promptly ensures clients get the right support at the right time and strengthens collaboration with families and healthcare professionals.

Flexibility Is Part of the Job

No two homes are the same, and no two days are the same. Flexibility, calm problem‑solving, and compassion help create a supportive environment where seniors feel understood and respected.

Why This Work Stays With You

Working with seniors in their homes is rewarding in a way that’s hard to put into words. You get to support independence, honour someone’s life experience, and make a real difference in their day‑to‑day life. Often, the relationships you build become the most meaningful part of the job.

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A Generation of Hope: Faith-Fueled Youths Shaping a Better World

 

Across cities, towns, and quiet corners of the world, a vibrant generation is rising—composed of intelligent, driven, and faith-filled young people. Some have walked across the stage to receive their degrees, while others are just beginning high school with fire in their hearts and purpose in their steps. What connects them is more than age—it’s their unshakable belief in God and a deep longing to leave the world better than they found it.

Among them is a young woman whose journey speaks volumes. She arrived in this country alone, uncertain of what lay ahead. With no home to call her own, she found a place in one of the shelters in the community. Rather than giving in to fear or defeat, she leaned into faith. It became her compass through every hardship. She secured a work permit, held down two jobs—one after the other—and studied late into the night. Her determination paid off: she earned her nursing degree and now stands as a living testimony to perseverance, courage, and the power of belief. Her life is a beacon to others navigating the storm.

Like her, countless youths around the world are choosing light over apathy. They champion causes from environmental justice to mental health and educational equality, not because it’s easy, but because they feel called. Their intelligence is matched by their compassion; their faith is not a relic of tradition, but a bold, daily practice.

They don’t wait for the world to change—they step out and change it. They are guided not just by textbooks, but by truth. Their actions speak of love, service, and justice.

This isn’t just a hopeful trend—it’s a revolution of the soul. And these young leaders are the architects of a future worth building.

To every young soul facing overwhelming odds—this is your reminder: You are not alone, and your journey matters.

Faith can be your compass, and resilience your wings. Even when the road is rough and the nights feel long, know this—your present does not define your future. Keep going. Keep believing. You have more strength than you know, and the world needs the light only you can bring

Faults and Forgiveness

My mother was an excellent cook. She taught all of her children the culinary arts as she knew back then. During those times, some folks had the opinion that only girls should be taught how to cook. Not my mother. She was a forward thinker and as a result, my brothers profited from her wisdom.

Since there were five girls, we were allowed to take turns each Sunday to prepare meals for the family. One of us would prepare breakfast, the other lunch, and so on

. There was a rule that only the person who is preparing meals for that particular time should be in the kitchen. This is to prevent arguments. In spite of this rule, there is always someone who wants to have their own way which can create problems.

One Sunday morning, it was my turn to prepare breakfast. I was ten years old.  I was making a roast bake ( a flatbread). One of my older sisters (they're all older than me anyway, since I'm the youngest child), came into the kitchen. She should not have been there. I was flattening the dough to place it in the pot, but instead, she put something else in there. When I turned and saw what was in the pot, I took it out and told her to get out of the kitchen. She insisted on annoying me by placing the object back in the pot. That's when I punched her on the nose which started to bleed. Dearest mother was called and I was reprimanded all because her nose bled. I was upset and did not speak to her for that week.

As Seventh-day Adventist Christians, we welcome the Sabbath each Friday evening by worshipping and giving thanks to God. We praise our Creator God, read the bible, and pray. We believe the Sabbath is 24 hours from sunset Friday evening to sunset Saturday evening. On this occasion, it was our custom before we started singing and giving thanks, to ask forgiveness of each other for anything that we have done to one another. During the week my mother did not know that this particular sister and I were not speaking to each other. Well, I know I was not speaking to her, I did not know if she wanted to speak to me and at that time, I didn't really care. My oldest sister, knowing the situation, spoke up at the time of worship. Mother was not pleased. She did not want us to have any conflict in the home, especially going so far as not speaking to each other as sisters. She then told me to ask my sister for forgiveness. Now I was not pleased.

           

         

There is a disadvantage in being the youngest. You are told by everyone else what you should do. You are picked on constantly. You are called "the baby" and even though you are in the right you are still wrong. I was already reprimanded for punching my sister on the nose, which I thought she deserved, for not staying out of the kitchen. But because there was spilled blood, I should ask her to forgive me. I'm thinking that this is not right, so I said nothing. Mother was not the kind of parent to argue with her children. No, No. She was the one in charge. She once again told me to ask for forgiveness from this sister. That's all she was saying, nothing else.  I said, "If I should ask for forgiveness but did not mean it in my heart, what then." My mother once again repeated the statement. I was adamant. Here I am, the youngest, holding up worship. We could not start until all wrongs were made right. Finally, I gave in and in a small voice ask for forgiveness. My sister, with a smirk on her face, said "I forgive you." Somehow after she said that, I wanted to punch her again but I did not. When the singing started, it was a joyous occasion and all was peace and happiness once again. Music does that, you know.     

Sometimes discord may arise in families- it's inevitable. But if handled wisely, it can be kept in check.  Each of us has our own personality, our own way of seeing the world. Yet, at the end of the day, family is the foundation we stand on. When all else fails, they are there for us. Because life is like that.  

 

Stealing From the Blind

On the hill where I grew up, something was always happening. With five girls and four boys, there were plenty of opportunities to get into trouble, annoy each other, or find adventure. Our home was surrounded by fruit trees—mango, coconut, custard apple, papaya, guava, and cashew. Beyond our yard, other properties had even more delights: breadnut (chataigne), passion fruit, soursop, red and yellow cherries, pomerac, plums, sapodilla, and many others that kept us well-fed year-round.  

Now, the breadnut was an unusual fruit—oblong, green, with white nuts inside covered by brown shells when ripe. Those nuts, once boiled in salted water, became a delicious treat. One day, two of my sisters gathered some breadnut, cleaned them, and decided to cook them on an open fire. They placed the breadnut in a large can, covered it with a lid, and set it over the flames, leaving it to simmer.  

It wasn’t long before my youngest brother wandered by, curiosity gleaming in his eyes.  

"What’s in the can?" he asked.  

"You shouldn't open it," I warned.  

But he was determined. Ignoring my words, he lifted the lid—and in an instant, hot steam burst out, hitting him full in the face. He screamed, stumbling backward.  

Our mother, hearing his cries, rushed outside. He clutched his face, whimpering, "I can’t see!"  

The steam had temporarily blinded him, and for three days, his world remained dark.  

During that time, he and I spent a lot of time together. We were close in age—he was two years older than me—and at lunchtime, our mother guided him at the table, helping him find his food on the plate.  

On the second day, she made a dish I adored: dumplings with codfish. The smell alone was enough to make my stomach growl. As my brother fumbled to eat, temptation got the better of me. Instead of helping him, I decided to steal one of his dumplings.  

I reached out, my eyes focused on his face rather than the plate. In doing so, my hand brushed against his.  

He paused.  

"Mom!" he called out. "Joan is taking my food!"  

I froze. I couldn’t believe my mistake—stealing from the blind and getting caught in the act!  

Our mother scolded me. "How could you do such a thing?" she asked, shaking her head. I had no excuse. It was, indeed, a silly, heartless act.  

On the third day, my brother whispered excitedly, "I think I see something!"  

Little by little, his sight returned, and soon, he was back to normal. Looking back, I realized how childhood perspectives shape the way we experience events. My siblings and I had feared his blindness would last forever, but our mother, with the wisdom of an adult, knew otherwise.  

Life often presents us with unexpected challenges, and how we perceive them makes all the difference. Sometimes, we assume the worst, only to be surprised by a positive outcome. That’s how life works—sometimes we steal, sometimes we stumble, but we always learn.  

Slithering Intruders

 

Growing up in the islands, our home was a place of both comfort and adventure. We raised goats, sheep, and chickens—just as many of our neighbors did.

Some had cows, donkeys, and other livestock. In the tropics, encounters

with insects and reptiles were commonplace: iguanas basking in the sun,

manicou scurrying through the undergrowth, birds soaring overhead, and

bees and butterflies dancing among flowers. Life was vibrant, filled with

the sounds of the rooster’s intermittent crow and the rustling of trees in the breeze.  

But sometimes, the creatures of the wild ventured a little too close.  

One evening, my mother and most of my siblings left for a function. My youngest brother and I remained home, though I can’t recall why. As night fell, the stillness of our quiet house unsettled me. I asked my brother to sleep beside me until the rest of the family returned, and he agreed.  

We drifted into sleep, unaware that an unexpected visitor had slipped into the house.  

The snake, cold and in search of warmth, slithered into our bed and nestled between us. Its presence was unknown to us, peaceful and undisturbed. When my mother returned home, she spotted the intruder and quietly woke us, careful not to startle either us or the snake. She feared that harming it could put us in danger, so she gently coaxed us awake. Disturbed by the sudden movement, the snake swiftly retreated, disappearing into the shadows, leaving us unscathed.  

It was an eerie moment that reminded us of the scripture: *“The angel of the Lord encamps around those who fear Him and rescues them.”*—Psalm 34:7.  

Our family had many encounters with these slithering creatures, but none were as fascinating as those involving my niece—my oldest brother’s daughter. She practically grew up with us, and if there was one thing I could say about her, it was that she was fearless. She was sharp-minded, an avid reader, and remarkably composed, never one to let circumstances fluster her.  

One evening, we sat in the living room chatting, while my niece quietly read a book in the corner of the couch. At some point, she got up to use the bathroom. Moments later, she returned and—without a hint of concern—announced that there was a snake inside the bathroom. Then, as if nothing had happened, she resumed her reading.  

Her tone was so calm that none of us took her seriously.  

One of my sisters, out of sheer curiosity, decided to verify the claim. Moments later, the house erupted in screams—the stark contrast to my niece’s composure was almost comical. My sister, hysterical, shrieked that the snake was coiled around the bottom of the toilet bowl. The commotion sent the serpent slithering away, likely more alarmed than any of us.  

My niece simply looked up from her book, puzzled by the dramatic response, before returning to her reading.  

Another encounter unfolded in the bedroom, where a custard apple tree extended its branches near the open window. One of my brothers had planned to cut those branches, but before he could, the tree served as a bridge for yet another unwelcome guest.  

As usual, my niece was reading on the lower bunk of a double-decker bed, absorbed in her book. A gentle brush against her arm barely distracted her; she assumed it was a stray leaf and casually brushed it away. But the sensation returned. This time, she turned—and met the eyes of a snake.  

She calmly got up and informed us of its presence. When I went to the bedroom, I saw it retreating, vanishing just as swiftly as it had appeared. My brother wasted no time—those branches were swiftly cut down.  

Fortunately, Tobago has no venomous snakes, and while these encounters were startling, they were never life-threatening.  

Looking back, I admire my niece’s quiet strength. Her unassuming nature, her ability to remain composed in the face of uncertainty—it was a striking contrast to the rest of us. Though we all grew up under the same roof, our personalities shaped our reactions differently.  

Life has a way of teaching us that, even in shared experiences, we each process the world in our own way.  

My Speech Disorder

 I can truly say I had a happy childhood, most of the time—but I had a speech disorder. I stuttered. It was really bad. As a child, I was teased and jeered at. The sound a goat makes is as though it is stuttering, so I was called “stammer goat.” Children can be cruel.

There were moments when I would try to speak in conversations with my playmates, only to grow frustrated when the words refused to come out. People around me would grow impatient because I wasn't speaking fast enough. Seeing the looks on their faces, I would feel embarrassed and stop talking altogether. Other times, I would rush my words in an attempt to match the pace of my friends. But in doing so, my speech would get tangled—jumbled to the point that I was asked to repeat myself. Imagine that. Here I was struggling to get the words out, only to be asked to do it again. The frustration was overwhelming, and worse still, people rarely understood how difficult it was.

Many offered remedies for my stuttering. Someone once suggested drinking water from a calabash, claiming it would cure me. I never tried it—I didn't believe it would work anyway.

Among those who teased me was my youngest brother. For the most part, I endured it. But one day, he went too far. We were on the veranda talking when I started to stutter, and he began jeering at me. I tried to walk away, but he followed, continuing his mockery. Anger surged within me. I picked up a stone and aimed it at his head. He ducked just in time, avoiding what could have been a painful lesson. He never teased me again. That moment taught me that teasing a person who stutters can be dangerous—pain cuts deep, and frustration can lead to unintended consequences.

My dear mother noticed my struggle one day and gave me advice I carry with me to this day: take deep breaths and speak slowly. She meant well, though at the time, I couldn't help but think, *Why do I have to do this when everyone else speaks effortlessly?* But as a child, accepting that truth was difficult.

A defining moment in my journey came at church, when I was asked to recite a poem. I was determined to do it, despite my disorder. I started speaking, but immediately, children in the front began giggling. I felt their stares, their amusement at my struggle—but I refused to give up. In my mind, I encouraged myself, *I don't care what you all think—I will say this poem.* I remembered my mother’s words, took a deep breath, and spoke slowly. I got through it. I was proud. That day, I began truly believing that stuttering wouldn’t hold me back.

To this day, there are moments when nerves creep in, and old habits return. But I always recall my mother’s advice. And interestingly, I never stutter when I sing! Perhaps it’s because singing naturally requires deep breaths. 

As an adult, I do not stutter as much—thanks be to God. Occasionally, I am called to speak before my church congregation or other groups, and I always write at the top of my notes: **Speak slowly.** It works for me, because life is like that—we must learn, adapt, and move forward. 

For anyone struggling with stuttering, I encourage you: do not be discouraged. If I can overcome it, you can too. Every journey is different, but who knows? Maybe slowing down and taking deep breaths will be the first step toward finding your own path to fluency.

Mistaken Identity

My two older brothers moved away from home in their late teens and settled in  Trinidad, the larger of the two islands of Trinidad and Tobago. A few years passed and they both got families of their own. They were living in different parts of the island of Trinidad, but there were times when they will return home to Tobago to see the rest of the family and talk of old times.

At the age of eight, my mother took me to spend part of the summer vacation in Trinidad, with my oldest brother, who is nineteen years older than me. I traveled on one of the island ferries that transported people and goods between the islands several times a day.  At that time, it took six to eight hours to get from port to port.  I believe they now have faster boats that take less time. It was not my first time traveling by ferry since I previously did that with my mother at a younger age. I am not a good sea traveler. I tend to get seasick. The journey was not a good one for me and was relieved when the boat came to port.

We started traveling from the Scarborough Wharf,  in Tobago,  at 10:30 pm and arrived at the Port of Spain docks, in Trinidad, at 4:30 the following morning. My brother was there to meet us and my mother returned on the next ferry to Tobago. My brother hired a taxi since he did not like driving, and never will. As we traveled along the winding road that leads to his home, the windows of the car were down, and I can feel the cool morning breeze on my face. I can see the early rays of the morning sun in the clear blue sky, which was a beauty to behold. It was a pleasant ride considering the past night.

After a twenty-minute drive, the taxi stopped beside the gate of a large house.  The house was enclosed by a four-foot wire fence. There were two apartments on the first floor and one of them belonged to my brother. As we entered the apartment, his wife met us at the door. I was a bit tired and since I was still feeling a bit queasy from the boat ride, I drank some tea and decided to take a rest. After such an awful night on the ferry, I slept for about two hours, which refreshed me.

Later in the day, I realized there were other children around my age that were living in the same compound. We became fast friends, and for the next two weeks, we took part in different activities. A couple of my friends were grandchildren of the owner of the house, who lived on the second floor. There were times when we would play and visit the grandmother on that floor.

One evening, during the last week of my vacation, at about eight o'clock, we were jumping on the bed in one of the bedrooms that were facing the street. As I stated earlier, this house was surrounded by a fence with a gate that was always locked. We were considered safe. There was a commotion on the outside. Some men were calling out the name of my sister-in-law's brother. He was not in the other apartment and no one at the time knew where he was. Apparently, the men at the gate were members of a gang. They came to collect the money that was owed to them. No one from the home was going out to talk to them and they could not get in. The light was on in the bedroom where I was and I innocently drew the curtain to see who was on the outside. Suddenly someone said, "Shoot the woman at the window." The person who spoke did not know it was a child at the window. At the same time, a family member came into the bedroom and switched off the lights, simultaneously a shot was fired. I dropped on the bed and shattered glass was all over me. I thank God that I was not hurt.

The following day, the police were searching the area for these gang members but without much success. They questioned the adults in the home to get some information on the happenings of the previous night. I am still determining what transpired next since I was leaving the following day to return to Tobago.

Looking back, I can truly say that I was protected by the unseen hand of God. Those gang members were angry and they just did not care who got hurt.  I believe it could have been worst and I would not have lived to tell this story because life is like that.