“My Parents Are Aging and I’m Not Ready”
“I know it’s part of life, but lately I can’t stop noticing the changes. My parents are slowing down. They’re forgetting things. Needing help in ways they never did before. And I feel this quiet panic rising in me—I’m not ready for them to age, to decline, to leave. I don’t feel ready to become the one who knows what to do.”
Dear Ryan,
There are few emotional thresholds as disorienting and tender as the one you’re standing at right now. That slow, dawning recognition: They’re not going to be here forever. It doesn’t arrive all at once. It sneaks in through small observations. A tremble in their hand. A name they forget. A moment when they ask for help instead of offering it. And suddenly you’re no longer just their child—you’re something else. A witness. A guide. Maybe even, eventually, their caretaker.
But your heart hasn’t caught up yet. Because no matter how old you are, there’s a part of you that’s still their child. The part that knew them as the ones who solved things, who held the center, who carried the weight. And now, that center is shifting.
This isn’t just sadness. It’s anticipatory grief. The quiet mourning that begins before a loss—when you start to sense the shape of absence, even while your loved one is still with you. It can be confusing, even guilt-inducing. You think, They’re still here—what right do I have to feel this heavy? But anticipatory grief is real. It’s the body’s way of preparing for an emotional earthquake it doesn’t know how to prevent.
And layered inside it is something even more complicated: role reversal. When the people who raised you begin to depend on you. Not just in practical ways, but in emotional ones. You become the one who holds space. Who makes the decisions. Who plans ahead. Who anticipates needs. You start to see their vulnerability—sometimes before they do. And that shift, even if it happens gradually, feels like a spiritual reorganization of your entire family system.
There’s no roadmap for this.
No one prepares you for the ache of watching someone you love become smaller in the world. Or for the way your own identity begins to quake beneath that shift. Because this isn’t just about them aging. It’s about what their aging means for you. The fragility it awakens. The mortality it makes visible. The unfinished conversations. The awareness that time is no longer limitless.
Even the good moments can carry a layer of sorrow. A shared laugh that suddenly feels rare. A hug that lasts a little longer because something in you wonders how many more there will be. The grief hides in gratitude, too. Not as a contradiction, but as a reminder: this won’t last. Nothing does.
And that’s what makes this so emotionally complex. It’s not just fear of their decline. It’s the confrontation with your own powerlessness. The reality that no matter how much you love them, you can’t stop what’s coming. You can’t protect them from age, from illness, from loss of control. And that helplessness is hard to sit with—especially if you’re someone who’s used to helping, fixing, managing.
You asked, What do I do with this feeling of not being ready? And the truth is, you don’t need to be ready. You only need to be honest. Honest that this hurts. Honest that this is scary. Honest that you love them so much it breaks something inside you to imagine a world where they’re not around to call, or text, or sit in quiet next to.
That honesty is your readiness. Not because it makes the loss easier, but because it keeps your heart open while they’re still here.
And while you're here—try to remember this too: being the adult in the relationship now doesn’t mean you stop being their child. You’re allowed to cry. You’re allowed to miss their strength. You’re allowed to feel overwhelmed by their forgetfulness, by their slowness, by their growing needs. You don’t have to be graceful about it all the time. You just have to show up, imperfectly, with your full heart.
Make space for the small rituals. Ask the questions you’ve always meant to ask. Let yourself sit in their presence without rushing to solve anything. And if you're scared to say what you feel, start there. Tell them. Tell them this is hard. That you’re doing your best. That you’re still learning how to hold it all.
There’s no clean way through this. But you don’t have to walk it alone. So many people are carrying this same heartbreak quietly. Wondering if they’re strong enough to witness the slow loss of the people who once felt invincible.
You are. Not because it will feel okay, but because it will be real. And real love holds up, even in sorrow.
Still here, still learning this too.
–RJ