THE WEIGHT YOU CAN'T NAME.

There’s a question I keep circling lately: Why don’t I see the aging as clearly as everyone else seems to? 

The Backpack of Emotional Baggage

  Why do I still see my young mom, the one who could fix anything, carry everything, and somehow make the world feel less sharp?

Maybe it’s because some part of me is still a child. Maybe it’s because she has always been my first call when life gets hard. And now, when the phone rings with news of “another episode,” I find myself driving the 62 miles to her, sobbing so hard I can barely see the road, because I don’t know who to call. She is my call.

There’s a kind of grief that doesn’t make noise. It just sits behind your ribs and waits for the next moment you’re alone. That’s where I am right now — in the silent‑tear, throat‑tight, trying‑to‑breathe kind of grief that comes with watching your parent age in real time.

Every time my mom hits a new hurdle, I tell myself she’ll get better. And she does, but “better” keeps getting smaller. The version of “better” I hope for now would have terrified me a year ago. The goalposts keep moving, and I keep pretending I’m not watching them slide.

The Shrinking Horizon

I look at her, and I see this fierce, stubborn, beautiful strength that has carried her through a lifetime. But her body… her body isn’t cooperating anymore. And I can’t fix it. I can’t make her better in the way she deserves. I can’t give her the feeling of moving forward, even though she fights for it every single day.

And that breaks me in ways I don’t say out loud.

No one tells you that caring for an aging parent feels like holding hope in one hand and heartbreak in the other. That you can be proud of their resilience and devastated by their decline at the same time. That you can love someone so much that it physically hurts to watch them struggle.

I’m doing everything I can. She’s doing everything she can. And still, some days, it feels like we’re both standing in the middle of a storm with no shelter, just holding onto each other and hoping the wind eases up.

This is where I am. This is how I’m doing. Not falling apart, but not okay either. Just loving her through every version of “better” we have left.

And if you’re walking this road too — loving an aging parent, holding your breath through every phone call, pretending you’re stronger than you feel — I see you. 

The Caregiver’s Hiking Boots

  There’s no manual for this. No right way to carry the weight. Some days you’ll feel steady, and some days you’ll fall apart in the car on the way to their house. Both are human. Both are love.

We don’t talk enough about how disorienting it is to still feel like someone’s child while becoming their caretaker. How your brain can hold the image of who they were and the reality of who they are now at the same time, and how that split can ache in places you didn’t know existed.

If you’re in that place, the place where “better” keeps shrinking, where hope and heartbreak sit side by side, you’re not alone. You’re not failing. You’re loving someone through the hardest chapter of their life, and that is a kind of courage no one claps for, but one that deserves to be honored.

I’m learning that sometimes the softest landing isn’t a solution or a miracle. Sometimes it’s just this: We keep showing up. We keep loving them. We keep going, even when it hurts.

And maybe, for today, that’s enough.

No Time for an Emotional Support Backpack: Experiencing a Breakdown