Elders
I didn’t wake up one morning and think, “I am now in late middle age; any day now I’ll be a senior citizen. I guess that makes me an elder.” It just happened.
I think about the elders I had in my life, the ones who seemed to have all the answers. I wonder now if they felt as unsure as I do sometimes. Did they worry about whether they were doing it right? Did they hope, as I do, that they were living up to the role? I’d like to believe they did, and that they’d understand how I feel now.
There was no ceremony, no moment of announcement. It wasn’t marked by a milestone birthday or a moment where the universe handed me the title and all its responsibilities. Becoming an elder is something you only recognize in hindsight, when you suddenly realize the roles have shifted, and the weight of that shift rests firmly on your shoulders. I didn’t wake up one morning and think, “I am now in late middle age; any day now I’ll be a senior citizen. I guess that makes me an elder.” No, it crept up quietly over time, in the spaces between losses, milestones, and moments magical and mundane. And only recently have I started to realize what it means—and how it feels.
I remember sitting at the funeral of a friend’s mother a few years ago. My friend and I have known each other since we were children, our families intertwined in ways that make her losses feel a little like mine and mine a little like hers. During the service, someone leaned in and said something that I can’t forget: “As long as our parents are alive, we’re still the kids. No matter how old we are. But once they’re gone, we’re not the kids anymore. We’re the ones who are supposed to know everything. We’re the older generation.”
At the time, I nodded, but it didn’t fully sink in. My mother was still alive then, and I suppose I was still “the kid” in a way. Now, she’s gone, and I’ve found myself thinking about that comment more and more. My mother’s death made it real. There’s no one left to call for advice or comfort, no one older or wiser to turn to when I don’t have the answers. The weight of that realization— both empowering and terrifying— is something I’m still learning to carry.
Losing my brother not long after has made that weight even heavier. He was only 58, just a year older than our dad was when he passed. His death has been a sobering reminder that time is finite. More of life is behind me than ahead of me now, and as much as I try to stay focused on the present, that thought lingers in the back of my mind. It’s hard not to think about the people we’ve lost and wonder if they’d be proud of who we’ve become, how we’ve taken up the mantle they left behind.
It’s strange, isn’t it? To think of myself as the elder. I don’t feel particularly wise or capable most days. I’ve made my share of mistakes. But I do feel… steady, I suppose. There’s a confidence that comes with this stage of life, a sense of freedom I didn’t have when I was younger. I’ve let go of the need to prove myself to anyone. I speak my mind without worrying so much about what people will think. I speak my mind, not because I believe I’m always right, but because I know my words are rooted in experience, education, and a world I’ve watched change in ways I never could have imagined. I remember the days before the internet, before social media, before cell phones shrunk the world into a device that fits in your pocket. I’ve seen the consequences of rushing headlong into progress without considering what we might lose along the way.
Sometimes I see younger women navigating the same struggles I faced—marriage, motherhood, careers, the endless juggling act—and I want to reach out to them. I want to say, “I’ve been where you are, and it’s going to be okay.” But I also know that they’re living in a world that’s very different from the one I grew up in. The challenges they face aren’t exactly the same, even if the underlying struggles are universal. Still, I feel this pull to contribute something meaningful, to offer whatever wisdom I can. Not because I think I have all the answers—I don’t—but because I know how much it meant to me to have elders who were willing to share their stories and insights.
Becoming the elder isn’t just about age. It’s about perspective, about realizing that the sum of your experiences—the joys, the losses, the quiet moments, and the chaotic ones—all add up to something worth passing on. And it’s about responsibility, too. There’s a sacredness to this role, a duty to guide and support and, sometimes, just to listen.
I feel an obligation to contribute to the conversation, to offer whatever wisdom I can. Not because I think I have all the answers, but because I know how much it meant to me to have elders who shared their insights when I was younger. I hope what I offer is useful, that it helps someone navigate a difficult decision or find comfort in knowing they’re not alone.
I think about the elders I had in my life, the ones who seemed to have all the answers. I wonder now if they felt as unsure as I do sometimes. Did they worry about whether they were doing it right? Did they hope, as I do, that they were living up to the role? I’d like to believe they did, and that they’d understand how I feel now.
I find myself looking inward, trying to reconcile all the experiences, losses, and joys that have brought me to this place. My husband and I have built a good life, one with more freedoms than burdens. We’re financially secure. We’re in good health. But the weight of grief is never far away.
And yet, there’s beauty in this stage of life. There’s a peace that comes from knowing who I am and what matters to me. There’s joy in watching my daughter raise her own family, in seeing pieces of myself in her and knowing that she’ll carry on long after I’m gone. There’s pride in the little things—the gardens I’ve planted, the stories I’ve written, the life I’ve built with my husband.
Still, it’s bittersweet. I think about all the people I’ve loved and lost, all the things I wish I could share with them. I hope, in some way, that they’re still here, watching, and that they’d be proud of the person I’ve become. And I hope, when it’s my turn to pass the torch, that I’ll have done enough to prepare the next generation to carry it.
So here I am, in this strange, beautiful, difficult stage of life. I don’t have all the answers, but I’m trying. And maybe that’s enough.
That was beautiful! I could’ve written it! But not as well and to be honest I wouldn’t! It made me cry….just because it hit home.