Why Does Caring for Aging Parents Feel Like a Burden? — Not for a Cup of Tea

A couple of years ago, on my 57th birthday, my daughter mentioned — almost in passing — that she and her sister had been talking about what to do with me, when I got older.

"Can they see something I don't?" I remember thinking. "Do I sound weak?" I didn't want anyone taking care of me. And I certainly didn't want to be a burden.

None of us do. And yet, if we're honest, supporting our parents in their silver years can often feel like exactly that — an obligation, an overwhelming responsibility. Isn't it strange? We dread imposing on someone to care for us, and we feel imposed upon when we're the ones giving the care.

It doesn't have to be this way. Here's a week in the life of Sonia, a sandwich-generation caregiver much like many of the people I work with.

Sonia had arranged everything perfectly for her aging mother — doctor's appointments, grocery delivery, a cleaning lady. Tuesdays were the tightest: soccer practice for her son Rafa, physio for her mother, all squeezed into the end of a workday.

Monday evening, her mother called — excited. She'd discovered her new neighbour went to the same physio clinic. This Tuesday, they'd go together. Sonia didn't need to drive her.

Almost on cue, Rafa ran in. He and three classmates would take the metro to practice themselves.

Just like that — a three-hour block, all to herself. And she wasn't sure what to do with it. She was so wholeheartedly invested in taking care of her mother and her children that free time had nowhere to land.

Tuesday evening, Sonia called her mum to hear how physio had gone. They chatted easily, until —

Mum: I do want to see you, though. Will you come for tea?

Right then, Sonia realised: she'd have had time to drive her mother to physio. Just not for a cup of tea.

We have become so defined by doing for others, we've forgotten how to simply be with them. Or with ourselves.

Sonia had been running a script — the one many of us inherit without ever writing it down: I must do for my parents what they did for me. It's my duty. Caregiving means taking over, managing, protecting. Only unloving children let go of the wheel.

She was running it perfectly. So why wasn't it working?

Her mother's delight at making a new friend — her happiness at being able to "go it alone" — showed Sonia that the checklist she was so proud of was quietly erasing who her mother had always been: a woman who'd navigated life independently, in her own way, for decades.

That's when it opened into something bigger. This wasn't a treadmill of never-ending tasks. It was a window — a chance to meet each other beyond the usual roles.

Sonia now has tea with her mother every other week. Just to be together. Sometimes chatting, sometimes in silent comfort. Not another item completed. Just presence.

We have known our parents all our lives — but not all of theirs. They aren't the people who dropped us off at college; they've had over forty years of living since. This is the question I keep returning to, on stage and off it: how well do you actually know the people closest to you?

Not for a Cup of Tea

This is the talk I gave on redefining care for the sandwich generation.