I am grateful. My parents are both still alive, and I’ve been able to spend meaningful time with them well into their later years. They are now in their mid-eighties.
Watching them age has taught me a great deal.
A friend, now 90, used to say, “Getting old isn’t for sissies.” As I’ve reached my own sixfies and watched my parents move through this stage of life, I’ve begun to understand what he meant.
I had wonderful parents. They weren’t perfect — who is? But I never wished they were someone else or that they had raised me differently. I had a great childhood. My mom staved home with us, and my dad worked hard to provide more than we needed. They raised me with a balance of freedom and boundaries. Maybe, in hindsight, more freedom than they wanted me to have — but it allowed me to make my own mistakes and grow from them, without getting into too much trouble.
They divorced when I was in my late twenties. Over time, I’ve seen how differently they’ve aged since then.
My dad represents what I think of as “good aging.” He still has his mental sharpness. He takes care of himself. He volunteers at church, and his wife volunteers and helps run the hospital gift shop, raising money for the hospital. Between them, they’ve had their share of physical challenges — knee and shoulder replacements, and my dad went through prostate cancer — but they stayed engaged.
They go to their grandson’s baseball games. They sing at church. They invite friends over. Life has slowed, yes — but it hasn’t stopped.
A few months ago, we took a two-week trip to Italy together. Traveling with an 83-year-old required planning and patience, but it was more than worth it. We had a wonderful fime and created memories we’ll carry with us for the rest of our lives.
They have a family friend who lived to 103. At 99, she was still driving. At 93, she volunteered at the hospital, pushing wheelchairs for people much younger than she was. She loved people. She was genuinely interested in life. Every time I think of Doris, I smile.
My mother’s experience has been very different.
I love her dearly. She lives with us now, and caring for her has been both challenging and, at fimes, heartbreaking. After a hip replacement ten years ago, she began using a walker and gradually withdrew from activity. She struggles with her health, her habits, and her sense of purpose. We’ve tried many ways to keep her engaged — inviting her into daily routines, encouraging movement, playing cards when she’s willing — but she resists most efforts.
She spends much of her time alone, watching television, despite being surrounded by people who care about her. Lately, I worry that dementia may be setting in. She becomes angry, sometimes invenfing reasons for that anger, and pushes people away.

It’s painful to witness. And I know I’m far from alone in this experience.
Over the last decade, the contrast between my parents’ lives has become impossible to ignore. One remains active, connected, and engaged with the world. The other has grown increasingly isolated and withdrawn. Neither life is perfect — but the quality of their days could not be more different.
Watching these two paths unfold has changed me.
It has made me more intentional about how I want to live. I want to stay engaged. I want to keep moving, contributing, and finding joy where I can. Not because life is always easy — but because it is still life.
Life and aging, I’ve learned, aren’t just things that happen to us. They are things we participate in — or slowly step away from.
And the choices we make along the way matter more and more every day.