The Silent Pain of Watching Your Parents Grow Old from Afar

There’s a quiet ache that only some of us carry—the ache of watching our parents grow older, not from the next room, but from miles away. You want to do more. You wish you could swoop in and make things better. But you’re here… and they’re there.

This is a story I didn’t think I’d ever write, but perhaps it needs to be told—because I know I’m not the only one feeling this way.

My parents are in their early 70s. They live in Kolkata, a city rich with memories and old roots, but not much support for them anymore. My father is a retired engineer after decades of working for a private company. He has always been a quiet, dignified man—never one to complain. But lately, the silence in his voice feels heavier. My mother, too, carries a kind of restlessness in her days—a mix of loneliness, worry, and yearning.

The plan was always to be there for them. To help when they needed it. To be their safe landing. But life has its own timelines, and mine hasn’t lined up yet.

Some Plans Don’t Work Out as Expected

They had hoped to move to Lucknow—our native place—where there’s more familiarity and maybe a few familiar faces. A place that could offer them not just nostalgia, but support. But making that move hasn’t been easy. The sale of their modest flat has stalled. Buyers aren’t offering what they’d hoped for, and without that sale, the shift feels like a distant dream.

The thought of them waiting—wanting to move, yet stuck — breaks something inside me.

And in moments like these, it’s hard not to feel like I’m failing them.

What No One Talks About

No one really talks about this space in-between—the one where you're no longer a child, but not yet fully able to support the ones who raised you. You're old enough to understand their pain, but still figuring out your own life.

People tell you, “It’s just a phase,” or “You’ll manage eventually,” but there’s no comfort in those phrases when you hear your mother’s voice tremble on the phone. Or when your father quietly downplays his health issues because he doesn't want to "bother you."

And you want to scream, “You’re not a bother. You’re my whole world.”

But emotions don’t pay bills. Love doesn’t sell flats. And worry doesn’t solve logistics.

Being Far Doesn’t Mean You Don’t Care

Some days, I feel the distance more deeply than others. Especially on the days I hear about doctor visits, power cuts, or when one of them just says, “We felt so alone today.”

I can’t always hop on a plane. I can’t rush over with soup or medicines. And that helplessness settles into my bones like cold.

Still, I try. I call. I listen. I reassure them, even if my voice sometimes hides the worry I feel. I remind them, and myself, that distance doesn’t dilute love.

A Small Step Forward Is Still a Step

I’ve started doing what I can from where I am—checking in more often, helping circulate the flat listing through extended networks, gently nudging the universe to make space for change. Nothing major has shifted yet, but I’ve come to see that even small efforts carry meaning.

And in the background of all this is a quiet mantra I keep repeating: “They are not alone. And neither am I.”

If You’re in This Place Too…

Maybe you’re living a similar truth—juggling work, healing your own wounds, and still trying to be a good son or daughter from afar. Maybe you’re dealing with guilt, or frustration, or fear of losing time.

If so, I just want to say: I see you. I feel what you’re feeling. And no, you’re not selfish or cold or uncaring. You’re simply doing the best you can with what you have.

You’re showing up in phone calls, in prayers, in checking the time difference before calling, in researching the best doctors in their area, in replaying voice notes late at night.

And that matters.

Love in This Phase of Life Looks Different

It may not always look like presence. Sometimes, it looks like persistence. Like sending a message at 7 AM just to say, “How are you feeling today, Mummy?” Or telling your father not to ignore that lingering cough. Or sitting in the quiet after the call ends, just holding space for the ache.

This phase of life is full of contradictions—gratitude for their presence, fear of losing them, and the overwhelming desire to do more, be more.

And still… we try.

We love them.

From afar. From the heart.

Have you ever struggled with this kind of distance—emotional, physical, or financial—from your loved ones? I’d love to hear your story. Let’s hold space for each other. It matters more than we know.