Why It’s So Hard to Care for Ageing Parents
Dedicated to my parents
One day, they’ll grow old. And you might find yourself looking after them. It’s not just difficult—it’s a heart-wrenching test of patience, responsibility, and compassion. Even if you’ve always had a warm, close relationship, you’ll need bottomless reserves of all three. They’ll grow frail, their minds slipping like sand through your fingers. You’ll see their vulnerability, feel that bittersweet mix of love and pity, but sometimes irritation will bubble up, and exhaustion will weigh heavy on your chest. We know the milestones of childhood—the terrible twos, the teenage rebellions—but what about the unspoken stages of ageing parents? Nobody prepares you for this.
Caring for them is a cross to bear. They might drive you up the wall over the smallest things: grumbling, digging their heels in, refusing to follow simple health advice. They’re adults, and treating them like children would be disrespectful—but their frailties are plain as day. They’ll forget what happened an hour ago, never mind yesterday. Short-term memory fails, and suddenly they can’t recall if they turned off the kettle or locked the front door. You repeat yourself, and they stare back blankly, as if you’re speaking another language.
Yet they remember the past with crystal clarity. They’ll rabbit on about it endlessly—their youth, the days when you were just a child. Those stories become their refuge because, let’s face it, their future is running out, and they know it. They’ll tell the same anecdote over and over until you could recite it in your sleep. It’s exhausting. But you bite your tongue. You listen. Or at least pretend to. Sometimes, that’s all they need.
Looking after ageing parents is especially tough if they weren’t exactly perfect. Old resentments don’t just vanish. Maybe they never understood you, never supported you, judged too harshly, or treated you unfairly. The hurt lingers, and now you’re spending your time, energy, and hard-earned pounds on them. How do you make peace with that?
You can work through those feelings. Talk to a therapist, vent to mates, write an angry letter you’ll never send. But don’t expect caring for them to magically heal your wounds. Accept that they hurt you, but don’t take it out on them. Don’t repeat their mistakes. And don’t wait for an apology—it might never come, and even if it does, it won’t lift the weight overnight. Forgiveness is your battle, not theirs.
Caring for them steals your life. You’ve got your own plans, dreams, responsibilities, but suddenly you’re rearranging everything for them. You watch them fade, and it hits you: soon, they won’t be here to hug you, to give advice, to look at you with that same warmth that made you feel safe as a child. Their gaze might grow distant, unfamiliar—like you’re staring at strangers. The thought guts you.
But while they’re still here, even frail and confused, you feel less alone. Mum and Dad are still with you. That knowledge gives you strength, stirs up something warm and half-forgotten from childhood. As long as they’re alive, you can still be their kid—just a little, just for these fragile moments.
You look at them—people running out of time—and then at your own children, with their whole lives ahead. Your kids grow independent, while your parents grow more dependent. You’re stuck in the middle, between sunrise and sunset. It’s unsettling, awkward, terrifying. And then it dawns on you: one day, you’ll be in their shoes. And someone will have to care for you.
What a blessing it would be to have someone who’ll listen to your rambling stories without rolling their eyes. Someone patient, the way you’re trying so hard to be patient now. Caring for your parents isn’t just duty. It’s a reminder that we’re all bound together, that time is relentless, and that love—even the messy, complicated kind—is what makes us human.
