**Why Caring for Ageing Parents is So Hard**
*Dedicated to my parents*
One day, they will grow old. And perhaps, the duty of caring for them will fall upon you. It is not merely difficult—it is a trial that breaks the heart and tests the soul. Even if your bond with them is warm and close, you will need endless reserves of patience, responsibility, and compassion. They will grow frail, helpless, their minds slipping like sand through your fingers. You see their vulnerability, feel a mix of love and pity, yet sometimes, irritation simmers within, and weariness weighs heavy on your chest. We know the stages of a child’s growth—the crises at three, five, twelve, sixteen. But what of ageing parents? We are unprepared.
Caring for them is a burden unlike any other. They may become unbearable over trifles: grumbling, stubborn, refusing to heed simple advice about their health. They are adults, and treating them as children would be disrespectful. Yet their frailties are plain to see. They forget what happened yesterday, even an hour ago. Their memory fails, leaving them unsure if they turned off the kettle or locked the door. You repeat yourself, and they stare back with empty eyes.
Yet the past remains vivid in their minds. They will speak of it endlessly—of their youth, of days long gone when you were but a child. These stories become their refuge, for they know their future is nearly spent. They will recount the same tale again and again, until you tally each repetition. It exhausts you, drains you. But you must hold your tongue. Simply listen. Or pretend to. Sometimes, that is all they need.
Caring for ageing parents is hardest if they were less than perfect. Old resentments still live within you. They misunderstood you, withheld support, judged you, or even wronged you. The pain they caused lingers. Anger stirs in your chest, indignation bubbles, and now you must give them your time, energy, and money. How do you accept this? How do you forgive?
You may work through these feelings. Speak to a therapist, confide in friends, write a letter to pour out all that festers. But do not expect caregiving to heal your wounds. Accept that they hurt you, but do not punish them for it. Do not repeat their mistakes. And do not demand their apologies, as if their words could lighten your load—that is an illusion. Forgiveness is your own labour, not theirs.
Caring for them steals your life. You have your own plans, dreams, duties, yet you must set them aside to tend to your parents. You watch them fade and realise: soon, they will not embrace you, offer advice, or look upon you with the warmth that sheltered you as a child. Their gaze may grow distant, unfamiliar, and in it, you no longer recognise yourself. The thought rends your heart.
Yet while they are here, frail and helpless, you feel less alone. Mum and Dad are still with you. That knowledge gives strength, calling forth something forgotten, tender, from the depths of childhood. While they live, you can still be their child—if only briefly, if only in these fragile moments.
You look at them—people whose time is running out—and think of your own children, whose lives stretch ahead. Children grow independent and forge their own paths, while parents grow ever more dependent on you. You stand between beginning and end, dawn and dusk. It is strange, uncomfortable, frightening. And then it strikes you: one day, you will be just as they are now. And you will hope someone stands beside you.
What joy it would be to find someone willing to hear your hundredth story without rolling their eyes. Someone as patient as you strive to be now. Caring for parents is not merely duty. It is a reminder that we are all bound together, that time is relentless, and that love—even the most difficult kind—is what makes us human.
