My Dad, who retired and moved back to India ten years ago, has been unwell for the past month. He’s always been strong, full of life, a man who spends his days in the garden digging, lifting, planting. He thinks he’s still 25. His body has always kept up with his spirit, until now.
This morning, I found out he needs keyhole surgery on his back.
It broke something open in me.
I lost my Mum eighteen years ago, and that loss is a wound I’ve carried every single day since. The thought of losing my Dad is unbearable. My biggest fear, and I’ve said it out loud before, is that one day I’ll get that phone call from India, the one that will take the ground from beneath me.
I’ve begged him, pleaded with him even, to move here to the UK so I can look after him. But he’s stubborn, set in his ways, unwilling to leave the life he’s built. And I have to respect that, even as it breaks my heart.
This morning reminded me of something we don’t often talk about in midlife:
Not only are our children growing older. So are we. And so are our parents.
And it’s a strange place to stand, right in the middle of it all. Our kids are stretching their wings, stepping into the world with their own stories. And our parents, the ones who once felt immortal, untouchable, are suddenly fragile in ways we can’t ignore.
It’s one of the hardest parts of this season of life. To be sandwiched in between. To mother and to daughter all at once. To carry the weight of your own midlife changes, while also carrying the fear of what’s to come.
So what do we do with that fear, that grief, that love that feels too big for our chests?
Here’s what I’m reminding myself of today:
Practical ways to hold this season
Cherish the calls. No matter how short or ordinary, every conversation is a gift. Don’t wait for special occasions to reach out.
Say what needs saying. Don’t hold back words of love, gratitude, or forgiveness. Speak them now.
Take care of yourself, too. Fear and stress live in the body. Move, rest, nourish yourself so you can be strong for them and for you.
Let go of control. We can’t force our parents to make choices they don’t want to make. Respecting their autonomy is also an act of love.
Make peace with presence. Sometimes all we can do is be present, whether across a garden table or across an ocean. That presence still matters.
As I sit here, I know I can’t control the outcome. I can’t stop time. I can’t protect him from every ache and wound.
But I can love him. Fiercely. Daily. In words and in action.
And I can remind myself that this is midlife: a season of learning to hold both the beauty and the heartbreak, the growth of our children and the fragility of our parents, all while tending to ourselves in the middle of it.
Journaling Prompt
How can I honour both my love for my parents and my need to care for myself in this season of life?
Inspired Call-to-Action
If your parents are still here, call them today. Tell them something you don’t say enough. If they’re not, honour their memory with a ritual that feels right, light a candle, make their favourite dish, or write them a letter.
