Why It’s So Hard to Care for Ageing Parents
Dedicated to my mum and dad
One day, they’ll grow old. And chances are, you’ll end up looking after them. It’s not just difficult—it’s a test that breaks your heart and pushes you to your limits. Even if you’ve always been close, you’ll need endless patience, responsibility, and compassion. They’ll grow frail, helpless, their minds slipping like sand through your fingers. You see their vulnerability, feel that mix of love and pity, but some days, irritation bubbles up inside, and the exhaustion weighs heavy. We know the stages kids go through—the terrible twos, the teenage dramas—but what about ageing parents? No one prepares you for this.
Caring for them is a burden unlike any other. They can drive you mad over little things—grumbling, stubbornness, refusing to follow simple health advice. They’re adults, so treating them like children isn’t right—it’d be disrespectful. But their weaknesses are plain as day. They forget what happened yesterday, even an hour ago. Their memory fails, and they’ll ask if they turned off the kettle or locked the door over and over. You repeat yourself, and they just stare back blankly.
Yet their past? Crystal clear. They’ll talk about it endlessly—their youth, the days when you were little. Those stories become their refuge, because the future’s nearly gone, and they know it. They’ll tell the same tale on repeat until you lose count. It’s exhausting. But you bite your tongue. Just listen. Or pretend to. Sometimes, that’s all they need.
Looking after ageing parents is especially tough if they weren’t perfect. Old hurts still linger inside you. They didn’t understand, didn’t support you, judged you unfairly. The pain they caused doesn’t vanish. You’ll feel anger simmering, resentment boiling up, and now you’re spending your time, energy, money on them. How do you make peace with that? How do you forgive?
You can work through those feelings. Talk to a therapist, confide in friends, write it all down in a letter you never send. But don’t expect caring for them to 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 them to apologise—it won’t lighten the load. Forgiveness is your journey, not theirs.
Caring for parents eats into your life. You’ve got your own plans, dreams, things to do, yet here you are, stuck by their side. You watch them fade, and suddenly it hits you: one day soon, they won’t hug you, won’t give advice, won’t look at you with that warmth that kept you safe as a kid. Their gaze might turn distant, unfamiliar. That thought shatters you.
But while they’re still here—even weak, even helpless—you feel less alone. Mum and dad are still around. That thought gives you strength, brings back something warm and forgotten from childhood. As long as they’re alive, you can still be their child—even if just for a little while.
You look at them—people running out of time—and think of your own kids, with everything ahead of them. Your children grow independent, move on, while your parents need you more than ever. You’re caught between beginnings and endings, sunrise and sunset. It’s strange, uncomfortable, scary. And then it hits you: one day, you’ll be the one getting old. And someone will have to care for you.
What a blessing it’ll be if someone’s there—listening to your stories for the hundredth time without sighing, patient like you try to be now. Caring for parents isn’t just duty. It’s a reminder that we’re all connected, that time spares no one, and that love—even the messy, complicated kind—is what makes us human.
