When I learned my father’s age, I was taken aback, especially since my mother is a year older. “But that makes Mom…” I began, only for my dad to chuckle and say, “Thirty-nine!” A quick reminder that I’ll be turning 39 this summer left him momentarily speechless.
I left my hometown for college when my parents were in their mid-40s, and by the time I returned with my own young family, they were nearing 60. Now, I can’t help but reflect on the years I missed with them. In the decade since, they’ve embraced aging. They now receive senior discounts at theme parks and movies—a sign of their transition. Yet, they remain active globetrotters, but it’s undeniable that they have changed.
Every time the school calls and I see their name on the caller ID, my heart skips a beat until I hear that everything is fine with my kids. This anxiety is a natural part of parenting, especially as a mother of boys. But it’s not just the kids that make my heart race; whenever the phone rings after 8 p.m. and it’s my parents, I feel that same rush of panic.
Over lunch with friends, our conversations have shifted from discussing our children and vacation plans to focusing on our parents. We delve into their health issues—the diagnoses of cancer, the creeping onset of dementia, our concerns regarding their driving abilities and financial situations. We talk about health insurance and estate planning. At 38, I find myself losing sleep over the well-being of both my children and my parents, caught in the middle of these two generations. It’s no wonder that my peers and I often seek therapy and anti-anxiety medication; there’s plenty to worry about.
Despite being an adult, I still feel like a teenager whenever I’m with my parents. I see them as the authority figures, even as I juggle my own responsibilities. It feels as though I’ve accomplished so much—graduating from college, building a career, starting a family, and more. Yet, as I progress into this new phase of life, it feels increasingly defined by loss—my children will grow up, my body will change, and my parents will continue to age. It’s as if the things I cherish are slipping away, much like grains of sand in an hourglass. Is this what they call mid-life? Am I on the brink of a crisis?
At the heart of my turmoil is an overwhelming sense of gratitude for all that I have, including my own grandparents. Yet, with these blessings comes the painful reality of potential loss, and I feel the weight of that burden. Each day is a struggle to navigate parenting while feeling like I’m failing at times, all while the anxiety of what’s to come looms overhead.
Music has always been a source of comfort for me, and my father’s love for Fleetwood Mac resonates deeply. Their lyrics echo in my mind: “Oh mirror in the sky, what is love? Can the child within my heart rise above? Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?”
It strikes me that time makes you bolder, but it also reminds me that children grow older, and I am, indeed, getting older too. As I observe my family—both big and small—aging, it often feels as if the ground beneath me is shifting.