Through Grown Eyes

There’s a moment in every adult child’s life when you begin to see your parents differently. Not as the people who raised you, but as humans finding their way through the final chapters of their own story. This visit brought that truth into sharp focus.

I’m writing today from my parents’ apartment. I have written about them before, but it’s been a while, and many of you are new here, so here’s a brief reintroduction.

My parents live together in a senior living facility in the independent wing, though it’s unclear how long they will be able to avoid assisted living. My father’s eighty-five, my mother’s eighty-three, and they each struggle in their own way. As lucky as they’ve been in health and longevity, getting older is hard. Watching them grow old has been its own kind of hard too. Still, there’s a sweetness that has come with it.

I believe my mom has undiagnosed dementia, though her symptoms are uneven. Sometimes I struggle to follow her train of thought, and other times I am startled by her clarity. The undercurrent of her old self is still present: loving, anxious, and mostly attuned.

This particular trip found me arriving just before a storm. My mom texted me throughout the night, begging me not to drive through the rain. No reassurance worked, despite my efforts. Of course, I came anyway.

Her anxiety isn’t limited to the weather. She’s always carried anxiety, but in this last season of her life, it seems to have few limits. Some of her worries make sense. She frets about what’s happening in the world and about the people she loves. Others are less grounded. She worries about finding a doctor she is scheduled to meet six months from now. She worries she won’t be able to attend my niece’s wedding, though my niece isn’t engaged yet.

My dad’s cognitive decline looks very different. He’s mostly cheerful. Where my mom remembers the past in sharp detail, my dad has lost access to most of his. He leans on her to fill in the blanks. Still, he’s content to play word games and chat with other residents. Everything stays on the surface, but if I’m honest, that’s where he’s always lived. Once, that felt frustrating and misattuned. Now, it feels almost like grace.

They are both overjoyed when I walk through the door.

This time, I came alone. I’ve learned that these solo visits are easier, both for me and probably for them. I can center my attention, stay patient, and meet them where they are. They adore my children, but my youngest has boundless energy, and it’s hard to meet everyone’s needs at once. When we all visit together, I often feel split into pieces.

This visit has felt equal parts beautiful and impossible. Although my mother doesn’t appear breathless, she says she struggles to catch her breath. The doctors have found no cause, but her discomfort is real. She knows she’s losing her health, and it breaks my heart.

But it’s not all sorrow. My parents cannot stop telling me how grateful they are just to be with me. And this visit has brought moments I never imagined I would get: the chance to share parts of my story with them. Not the painful ones. I have no interest in reopening old wounds. But many of my essays are not about hurt. We have been reliving lighter memories, laughing together at the absurdities of our past. And we snuggle. The physical affection still lands beautifully for all of us.

I used to be quick to irritation with my parents. After all, they installed my buttons and know exactly how to press them. That is true for many of us, I imagine. But over years of working on myself, of seeing them through the eyes of the parent I have become, something has shifted. I can see them now through gentler eyes, the eyes of someone who understands what it means to love imperfectly, to do your best within your limits.

My buttons do not work the way they used to. Maybe they have lost their charge. Maybe I’ve learned to disarm them. Either way, I’m reminded on this trip that as hard as it is to watch my parents age, it’s a gift to have them here still.

Because not only have they watched me grow, I’ve lived long enough to see them clearly too. To love them with the full awareness of who they are and all they have given me.

To see through grown eyes is to hold both grief and gratitude at once. It means recognizing that time changes everyone, and that love itself evolves with it. My parents are not who they once were, and neither am I. But somewhere between the stories we retell and the silences we share, love remains.