This past week has been full of really fucked up math. Math I never wanted to do.

Not the kind with neat answers or clean equations—this is the kind that makes your stomach knot up. We’ve been touring facilities, sitting across from financial advisors, talking with real estate agents, and every single conversation circles back to numbers.

The calculus of caring at the end of life is brutal.

On one hand, of course, you want to give someone the highest quality care possible. You want dignity, comfort, safety. You want them to have staff who know their name, who don’t rush, who care.

But then you look at the fine print.

And you start doing the mental gymnastics: how long will the resources last? What account do we draw from first? What’s taxable, what’s not? What if she needs more help sooner than we think? What if she lives longer than the money does?

It’s dizzying. And underneath it all is the most devastating equation of all:

How long is someone “allowed” to live, based on their resources?

It sounds cold when you say it out loud, but that’s what it is. Outlive the dollars, and the options get bleak. The reality is that quality of care is almost always tied to how much you can pay. That’s not bitterness. That’s just the math.

And the math doesn’t stop at dollars. It also counts in social resources.

How long can I keep counting on Charlie’s friends to drive her to appointments, track doctors’ notes, call to check in, include her in outings? How long before the patience, energy, and goodwill of others wears thin? Those, too, are resources with limits. And just like money, when they run out, the picture changes.

The math isn’t just financial or social—it’s relational, too.

People keep asking why I’m not moving Charlie in with me. Why I’m not stepping into the role of full-time caretaker until a facility can take over.

The truth?

We are next of kin, but we are not family—not in the way that counts. She made that clear. I made that clear. And I refuse to blur those lines now just to make other people more comfortable.

I will help design the system. I will advise. I will do my part to make sure she gets the best of what she can afford. But I will not step back into servitude. That’s not what’s best for her, and it’s not what’s best for me. And if I can’t do it with love in my heart, then I won’t do it at all.

That, too, is part of the calculus.

I’ve had to remind myself of that again and again: I came here to do a job. To look at her financial situation, all of her assets, and arrange them in a way that serves her needs for as long as possible. That was the assignment.

It was not to make the situation different. It was not to improve the financial picture. It was not to change the truth of what’s between us.

It was simply to arrange the puzzle pieces in the most strategic way possible. To build the clearest plan with what’s already on the table.

The assignment was to put the puzzle together—not to make a better puzzle.

And then there’s the math that doesn’t show up on paper: the math of support networks.

How long can I stay in someone’s home before I become a nuisance?
How many times can I call on my community before I wear them out?
How many favors can I ask before the account is empty?

Relationships need reciprocity, just like bank accounts. If you only withdraw, eventually the balance hits zero.

I’m so aware right now of how much I’m leaning on the people who love me. And I’m constantly running those internal numbers: how much can I ask for, how much can I count on, and for how long?

And then I catch myself wondering—am I inventing this math altogether? Am I imagining the ticking clock, the shrinking balance, because I’m so uncomfortable being supported? Is this “nuisance equation” real, or is it only real because I’m making it real?

It’s hard to tell. But the weight of it feels just as real as the bills on the table.

At the heart of it, everything comes down to balance.

The Egyptians imagined it like this: a great hall at the edge of the afterlife, silent but for the sound of your own heart. Anubis, jackal-headed and steady, sets your heart on one side of a golden scale. On the other, a single white feather—the feather of Ma’at, goddess of truth, justice, balance.

If your heart is light, the scales steady. You pass through, free to continue.

But if it is heavy—weighted with lies, resentment, greed—the scale tips. And waiting below is Ammit, the devourer: part crocodile, part lion, part hippopotamus. She swallows the heavy heart whole, and the soul vanishes.

That was their math. Not abstract. Not negotiable. A life measured, one way or the other.

And here we are, thousands of years later, still working the same equation. Still stacking what we’ve given against what we’ve taken. Still pretending the imbalance won’t matter—until it does.

So here’s how I’m trying to keep some balance for myself in the middle of all this.

I only spend half the week doing in-person work with Charlie. The rest I do remotely, which feels like a healthier rhythm—close enough to stay connected, but far enough to breathe.

I’ve also kept a promise to myself: to move my body every day. It doesn’t have to look the same—sometimes it’s a walk, sometimes yoga, sometimes a run—but it’s something. It reminds me that even while I’m in service to others, I still belong to myself.

And then there’s meditation, which helps me balance my need for control with surrender. It’s the space where I stop forcing answers and allow the next step to reveal itself.

None of it is perfect. But it’s enough to keep the scales from tipping all the way over.

The math of death and disease isn’t neat. It’s messy, unfair, and cruel. It takes the most human realities—love, dignity, care—and shoves them into the cold logic of dollars, hours, and patience.

But here we are, doing it anyway. Adding and subtracting. Counting dollars and favors. Measuring time against need, and need against what’s left in the account—financial, social, emotional.

Some days it feels like a spreadsheet. Other days it feels like those ancient scales—every choice, every withdrawal, every act of care weighed against something impossibly light.

And I catch myself wondering—am I really running out of resources, or just running out of comfort with being supported? Am I imagining the imbalance, or is it only real because I’m making it real?

I don’t know.

But the weight of it is real.
And the scales are always there.

-Sunny

Close your eyes for a moment and imagine this:

You’re walking into the Hall of Judgment. The floor is cool stone beneath your feet, the walls carved with the stories of countless lives before yours. Torches flicker, shadows stretch long. In the center of the chamber stands a golden scale, gleaming in the silence.

Anubis waits there, steady and watchful. In one hand, he holds your heart. In the other, the feather of Ma’at—truth, balance, justice. He sets them gently on opposite sides of the scale.

You hold your breath as they settle.
This is the math of your life.

Now, without waiting for the end of days, ask yourself:

Take a moment and let the answers rise. Don’t judge them. Just notice.

Then, on paper or in your heart, record what you see. And from that, choose three small actions—no matter how tiny—that begin to shift the balance.

It might be a boundary. A phone call. A change in how you spend an hour tomorrow. A single honest word.

Because the scales are always there, whether you look or not. And every choice tips them, one way or the other.