I’ve already been there.
I know.
I know the pain. I know the exhaustion. I know the heartbreak.
And the truth is, I’m still there.
It’s not easy.
The cancer diagnosis. The stroke. The moment forgetfulness becomes something more, and suddenly Alzheimer’s is stamped onto a medical history that once seemed so ordinary.
Sometimes it catapults you into this chapter without warning. One phone call. One diagnosis. One hospital admission. And just like that, life is divided into before and after.
Other times, it’s an ever so gentle, almost imperceptible creep.
You look around one day and realize your mom or dad seems a little more frail. A little less strong. There’s a hollowing around their eyes that wasn’t there before. A paleness where their skin once glowed. More wrinkles than you remember. They rest more. They move slower. Their voice sounds a little softer.
And somewhere along the way, without ever formally acknowledging it, you realize the people who once seemed invincible are becoming vulnerable.
You look to your left, and there is your beautiful, growing, thriving family.
Your children. Your greatest joy. Your greatest responsibility.
Their lives are unfolding at lightning speed. The school projects, the sports, the performances, the friendships, the heartbreaks, the milestones. You want to be present for every single second. They need your guidance, your reassurance, your wisdom, your strength.
You are their compass.
But then you look to your right.
And there are the people who raised you. The people who once held your hand crossing the street, who taught you how to navigate the world, who were once your safest place to land.
And suddenly, those people who used to be your compass are beginning to look lost unless you grab that wheel and right the ship. And you know, deep in your heart, that if you don’t help guide those ships, they may never find their way back to shore.
They rarely ask for much.
But they quietly need you more than ever.
And there you stand.
Somewhere between the people who gave you life and the people to whom you’ve given life.Pulled in two directions by the very same love.You are a millennial. But allow me to welcome you to your newest title.
Welcome to the Sandwich Generation.
Listen closely.
I don’t know it all. I haven’t figured out how to do this gracefully. I have already lost one parent far before her time. And now I find myself watching another grow older, slowly becoming more fragile than the strong independent man I once knew. I’ve lived the devastating finality of losing a parent, and I’m living the quieter heartbreak of watching another change before my eyes.
So, if I could offer you a little advice as you embark on this journey, it would be this:
1. You will mourn your parents long before they are physically gone.
And nobody prepares you for that.
It’s a strange kind of grief. One that doesn’t come with a funeral, sympathy cards, or casseroles left on your doorstep.
Because they’re still here.
You can still call them. Still hug them. Still sit beside them.
But perhaps their memory isn’t what it used to be. Their strength has faded. Their independence is slipping away. The light in their eyes looks different. You may find yourself missing someone who is sitting right in front of you. And that is a heartbreak that is incredibly difficult to explain.
You’ll miss the version of them who knew exactly what to do. The one who could fix anything. The one who could answer your questions instead of needing you to answer theirs.
You’ll miss being the child.
Because slowly, almost without permission, your roles begin to reverse.
And there will be days when you spend more time managing appointments, medications, hospital visits, and worries than you do simply enjoying their company.
It will be exhausting. And sometimes, you will feel guilty for being exhausted. You’ll wish for one more ordinary afternoon when nobody needed anything. When you could just be their daughter or son, and they could just be your mom or dad.
Please understand that grieving who they once were does not mean you love who they are today any less. It simply means you remember. And sometimes, remembering hurts.
2.Growing old is a privilege not all are afforded.
I know that when you are in the thick of it, it can be easy to forget this. Perhaps your loved one is suffering so deeply, mentally or physically, that you find yourself wondering if peace would be kinder than another day of struggle. I understand that, too.
But I also know what it means to love someone who was never afforded the gift of growing old.
My mother passed away before she ever reached retirement age. She never had the opportunity to see her children fully grown, to experience the beautiful friendship that emerges between parents and their adult children after all those years of raising them. She missed weddings, the births of grandchildren, preschool graduations, and countless ordinary moments that would have meant everything to her.
She missed the privilege of simply being here.
And while aging is not always graceful, and certainly not always easy, I believe there is something profoundly beautiful about the opportunity to grow old.
There is something sacred to me about helping our elders age as gracefully, peacefully, and with as much dignity as possible.
If we take the time to truly listen, we realize that their voices carry pieces of our history. Stories of lives lived long before ours began. Stories of love, loss, sacrifice, resilience, and joy. And I, for one, want those voices to be heard for as long as possible.
Every scar holds a story. Every laugh line holds a treasured memory. Every wrinkle is evidence of another year lived, another experience gained, another chapter written.
These are not simply signs of aging. They are the markings of a life.
May we find it within ourselves to slow down, to listen a little longer, to offer patience when patience is difficult, and to recognize the extraordinary privilege of growing old.
And above all, may we always preserve the right of our elders to age with dignity, compassion, and pride.
Because growing old is not a burden to apologize for. It is a privilege to be honored.
3.You Are Doing Enough, Even on the Days When They Struggle to Accept Your Help
Let’s be real. Sometimes they’re just plain stubborn.
And you know what? I’m glad they are.
I’ve always said that some of that feistiness is exactly why they’re still here. That fierce independence, that determination to do things their own way, and that unwavering refusal to surrender control may very well be what has carried them this far.
And I say this with both personal experience and professional expertise. I hold a doctorate in Physical Therapy from Boston University and have dedicated my entire career to geriatric care, balance, and neurological disorders.
Yet, despite all those years of education, clinical experience, and countless conversations with patients about safety and fall prevention, I can assure you there is absolutely nothing I could say to convince my own father to use an assistive device.
Not a single thing.
So believe me when I say, I get it.
Sometimes we can only lead a horse to water. We can educate, encourage, advocate, and gently remind. We can explain the risks, offer alternatives, and plead our case until we’re blue in the face. But ultimately, we must respect their right to make decisions about how they wish to live the years they have left.
And that isn’t always easy.
Because somewhere beneath all the medical appointments, safety concerns, and well-intentioned advice, there remains the age-old power struggle between parent and child.
The parent who spent a lifetime guiding, protecting, and caring for you may never fully accept that the roles have begun to reverse. Some will never quite see past the little boy or girl they raised to recognize the capable adult standing before them, desperately trying to keep them safe.
And maybe, in some ways, we shouldn’t expect them to.
Your advocacy is enough. Your effort matters. Even when your advice goes unheeded, even when your patience wears thin, even when you drive home wondering if you could have done more.
There are no trophies for doing this perfectly. No one wins the battle against time. And none of us gets out of this life alive. So remember to laugh when you can.
Some of my favorite moments weren’t the carefully planned visits or meaningful conversations I had hoped to have. They were the unexpected ones. Sitting in traffic, with nowhere else to be, finally having the opportunity to listen. Really listen. To the stories, the opinions, the memories, and the perspectives that came from a lifetime of experiences I could never fully understand.
And now, as I get older, every so often I open my mouth and hear my father’s voice coming out of my own.
His expressions. His opinions. His stubbornness.
And I smile.
Because perhaps that feistiness isn’t something we need to fix after all. Perhaps it’s something we inherit.
So let this serve as an advance apology to my own children.
One day, I will probably be just as stubborn. And I hope you’ll love me through it, too.
I dread the day we have to say, “See you later.”
Even the thought of it makes my eyes well with tears. I wonder how I’ll help my own children navigate their first great loss, how I’ll guide them through a grief journey that I know all too well, yet one I would give anything to spare them from.
Because no matter how old we get, no matter how much we know about life and loss, we will never be old enough to not need our mom and dad.
So for now, you’ll find me sitting in a waiting room, forcing a smile, silently wondering how in the hell we’re going to figure all of this out.
How do we juggle the medical appointments and the school pickups? The specialist visits and the soccer games? The prescriptions, the permission slips, the careers, the carpools, and the thousand other responsibilities that somehow all need us at once?
How do we show up for the people who raised us while still being everything to the little people we’re raising?
The truth is, I don’t have the answer. And I suspect most of us don’t.
But what I do know is that none of us is meant to navigate this season alone. It’s why our villages are not simply a luxury, but a necessity. We need the friends who pick up our kids without being asked, the spouses who recognize when we’re barely holding it together, the siblings who share the weight, and the people who remind us that it’s okay to laugh even when life feels unbearably heavy. We need each other. Perhaps now more than ever.
And if we’re going to wear the badge of the Sandwich Generation, caught somewhere between the people who once held our hands and the little hands still reaching for ours, then I think we’ve earned ourselves something to wash it down with.
So cheers, babe. Somehow, we've got this.