Triple Trouble: The Cost of Great Care Is Resentment

“As a nurse, I see this all the time with families caring for elderly or chronically ill relatives. They start out full of love and hope, but over time, the daily demands wear them down. The burnout builds.”

Here’s the truth: I’m struggling.

Payco is in the thick of recovery, and with that comes a level of care and responsibility that is beginning to wear me down. This isn’t the pretty part of horse ownership. This is the unfiltered, ugly side that most people don’t talk about — when resentment starts to creep in, and you feel guilty for even thinking it. And because this series, Triple Trouble, shares the whole journey, I’ve made it a point to be honest about both the good and the bad. This one is kind of heavy.

Payco’s wound on May 7, 2025. Photo by Marcella Gruchalak

Every single day, Payco’s bandage needs to be completely redone. Not touched up. Not reinforced. Ripped off and started over. Despite every reinforcement technique I’ve tried, Payco has made it his mission to remove his bandage daily. He uses the wall and his own other leg like a saw, grinding at it with persistence. I have to give it to him, he’s smart. And I can’t blame him — he’s uncomfortable, bored, irritated. But that doesn’t make it any easier to face each morning.

One of many torn off bandages. Photo by Marcella Gruchalak

Every day, it’s about an hour of work: cold hosing the wound to flush out debris like hay and bedding, letting the area dry completely, and rebandaging. That means four rolls of vet wrap, two gauze rolls, sheet cotton, and two Telfa pads — every single day. The costs stack up fast, both in time and money. And all the while, the mental weight grows heavier.

Wound on May 12, 2025. Photo by Marcella Gruchalak

At this point, I dread going to the barn in the morning. That’s not something I ever thought I’d admit. But the thought of walking in and seeing that bandage destroyed again fills me with a sense of heaviness that’s hard to describe. I don’t want to see him — not because I don’t care, but because his presence is a reminder of the stress that’s quietly overtaken my days. Financially, it’s a drain. Mentally, it’s exhausting. Emotionally, it’s numbing. Another bandage shredded, more hay jammed in the wound, swelling at the wound site, and the knowledge that no matter what I did the day before, it didn’t hold. Again.

Fresh bandage change. Photo by Marcella Gruchalak

And that dread brings guilt. Because I love this horse. I chose him. And I know he didn’t ask for this any more than I did. But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s become a source of stress I didn’t fully see coming.

As a nurse, I see this all the time with families caring for elderly or chronically ill relatives. They start out full of love and hope, but over time, the daily demands wear them down. The burnout builds. You see the tension in their shoulders, the shortness in their answers, and the guilt that comes from wishing for a break, even for just a few hours. It’s not that they don’t care — it’s that they’ve given everything they can, and there’s nothing left to pull from. You give and give, and still the days blur into one long routine of worry and effort.

Wound May 15, 2025. Photo by Marcella Gruchalak

Now I find myself in that same position. I never expected to relate so closely to those families I’ve supported in the hospital, but here I am. And it’s heartbreaking to admit that sometimes, I just don’t want to see him. I don’t want to deal with another bandage. I don’t want to pretend this hasn’t impacted my mental health.

But I still go down. I still give him scratches and butt pats. I let him have some time to hand-graze because I know how much it helps him mentally. I stay kind in my actions, even when I feel anything but kind inside. Not because I’m a saint, but because I know that if I only give 75%, this process will drag on longer and neither of us deserves that.

Some much needed hand grazing time. Photo by Marcella Gruchalak

Science supports what I feel in my gut: horses are incredibly in tune with human emotion. Studies have shown that horses can read our facial expressions, sense changes in our tone, and even mirror our moods. They know when we’re stressed, upset, or angry — even when we don’t say a word. So even if I’m gentle with my hands, if my face is clenched and my energy is tense, Payco feels that.

Payco’s wound on May 19, 2025. Photo by Marcella Gruchalak

I know Payco is just as tired of this as I am. He wants to move, to be grazing outside, to just be a horse again. And I want to give him that freedom. But we’re not there yet. We’re in this middle space — this painful, frustrating, dragging stretch where progress feels invisible and every setback feels personal.

And if I’m being honest, it’s not love that keeps me showing up right now. It’s something more stubborn. Maybe even anger. Not at him, but at the situation, at the costs, at how long this is taking. I’m not motivated by inspiration or warm fuzzy feelings. I’m motivated by the sheer refusal to give less than he needs —because he deserves more than that.

There’s nothing pretty about this part of our story. It’s not filled with first place titles and perfect performances. It’s made up of shredded vet wrap, exhausted sighs and the harsh realization that sometimes, caring for something you love is the hardest thing in the world. It’s not glamorous. It’s not inspirational. It’s just hard.

Wound on May 22, 2025. Photo by Marcella Gruchalak

But still — I’m here. Still scratching his favorite spot. Still braiding his mane and tail. Still talking to him softly while I rewrap the bandage he tore apart in the night. Still giving 100%, even when I feel like I’m running on 10%. Because I made a promise to him — not just to be there for the highs, but for the unbearable stretches in between.

This is Triple Trouble. This is the truth behind the photos and updates. This is what happens when the care becomes constant, when the love gets layered with frustration, and when you keep going anyway. Not because it’s easy but because it’s necessary.

A lady bug landed on me while we were hand grazing. We’ll take the good luck. Photo by Marcella Gruchalak

And someday, when this chapter is behind us, I hope I can look at him standing sound and strong and know this: I didn’t walk away when it got ugly. I stayed. I showed up. I did the work. For him, and it paid off.