The Sandwich Years: Love, Loss, and the Weight of Caregiving

I guess I didn’t see this all coming at once. I wasn’t sure if I could share it, but maybe it will land with someone out there — someone who finds themselves crying at random times, as different parts of life call for space: space for joy, for growing up, for aging parents, for financial stress, and everything in between.

Writing has always been my refuge, a way to process my inner thoughts and world. And I know so many high-achieving, ambitious, overly burdened, responsible humans carry these emotions in silence. Today, I’m setting mine free with you.

We’re in that transitional time when September hovers in the air. It brings tugs, pulls, emotions, and a constant mix of logistics, planning, and financial strain.

I’m a mom of three under nine. I run my own life coaching business, and I work part time. Over 90% of my paycheck goes straight to childcare, and I’ve grappled with what that means for our family as a whole. Even when I worked full time, with two kids in daycare, we were stretched and worried about money.

There are always opinions about what one should do differently, but here’s what I’ve learned: it’s not because I’m not working hard enough. It’s the opposite. I’ve made choices — to live modestly, to spend time with my kids — choices rooted in how deeply I care about my family. But those choices come with costs most people never see.

Lately, I’ve also been watching my dad’s health decline. He’s had diabetes for years, but now I see the fatigue, the haze of medications I don’t even know the names of. As a middle child and a born caretaker, my brain constantly searches for ways to improve things for him. And yet, I am powerless. It’s his life, his choices. Some things you can’t operationalize or fix. You have to sit with them, feel them, and acknowledge how overwhelmed you are. There’s sadness. There’s pre-grief. There’s grief everywhere.

Last night, after a family dinner, I watched my dad walk slowly. I put my arm around my mom and said, “I’m here for you. You don’t have to carry this alone. I’m here every step of the way.”

Aging brings its own anxiety and worry, and watching it as a daughter is its own heartbreak. My parents aren’t having an easy time either. This is the real stuff of life — the things we hold quietly in our families and our hearts. I’ve been a caretaker since I was young, and it’s followed me through motherhood and now into this sandwich generation, where my children are still little and my parents are growing older.

As a business owner, employee, wife, and mom, my hands are full. My mind is full. My mental and emotional health remind me daily: this is already enough to carry. And yet there isn’t much left — financially or emotionally.

It’s stressful. And I don’t want my kids to see it. We do our best. But it’s not easy.

If you’ve been in my community for a while, you know I’m an advocate for mental health because of my own lived experience with burnout, depression, and anxiety. I manage it mostly in the background, but as I get older, I see it showing up more in my parents too. They don’t see mental health as something treatable right now, and so we’re on this ride, enduring day by day as it goes unattended.

I often wonder what it would be like if they said yes. Yes to their wellbeing. Yes to their mental health. Yes to the years they still have ahead. But I know I’m powerless. We can’t make the people we love choose differently. That’s one of the hardest truths.

I don’t have answers for this. I’m struggling with it as I watch.

I pride myself on the ways I care for my family — in my actions, in my decisions, in choosing support over stuff, love over “bigger and better.” But the truth is, I’m living, loving, and grieving hard. None of it feels easy. Most of it feels heavy and unsolvable.

Stress impacts all of us. And often, we feel like we’re navigating it alone — because of judgment, stigma, or the highlight reels we compare ourselves against.

These past few weeks, I’ve been trying to sit with myself differently. To show compassion. To resist the urge to operationalize or push harder.

Supporting a family doesn’t always look like money or things. Sometimes it’s in the daily exchanges, the quiet choices. We each have a unique set of resources and circumstances. And I have to believe that, as caretakers, the systems we live in weigh heavier on us than any recognition or reward we’ll ever get.

So no, I don’t have advice or a formula for these messy middle years. But if you’re looking at someone you love and know deep down that it can’t be fixed or improved, let this be enough:

Tell them you love them. Love them so much. And love hard.