I Didn’t Go Deep Enough: The Truth About Watching Everyone Lose Their Parents in Your 40s

After I wrote my last blog about being in your 40s and watching everyone around you start losing their parents, I had a few people reach out.

One person said, “This is your voice. These are the conversations we need around the campfire.”

And another friend lovingly called me out.

She said, “I don’t think you dug deep enough.”

And ya know what?

She was right.

I didn’t.

(and I got called out)

Not because I didn’t care. Not because I didn’t feel it. But because I felt it so much that I think I softened the edges. I kept it a little safer. I stayed just far enough away from the deepest part of the ache so I didn’t have to fully sit inside it.

Because the truth is, that blog was hard to write.

Like, box of Kleenex beside me hard.

Not just because I was writing about grief.

But because I was writing about the grief I know is coming.

The kind I cannot imagine surviving, even though I know one day I will have to.

Because I still have both of my parents.

And I know how fucking lucky I am.

I know how lucky I am that I can still pick up the phone and call my mom when I need something.

I know how lucky I am that my dad can still come and pick me up when my truck is in the shop.

I know how lucky I am that I can still drop by their house, walk into the kitchen, open the fridge, raid the pantry, and take whatever I need like I still live there.

Because let’s be honest — some of us are very much still adult children when it comes to our parents’ fridge.

And there is something so ordinary and sacred about that.

The dropping by.

The casual conversations.

The “I was just in the area.”

The hug before you leave.

The knowing they are five minutes down the road.

The knowing there is still a house where part of you gets to be someone’s child.

And I think about this often.

One day, they won’t be there.

One day, I won’t be able to call my mom.

One day, I won’t be able to ask my dad for help.

One day, I won’t be able to walk into that house and feel the strange comfort of being annoyed, loved, fed, supported, and witnessed all at the same time.

One day, the people who brought me into this world will no longer be of this earth.

And that thought absolutely breaks my heart.

I have said it before, and I will probably say it for the rest of my life:

I would give up every dollar of inheritance, every possession, every material thing, every stupid financial thing people fight over after death, if it meant I could keep my parents for my whole life.

I don’t need the money.

I don’t want the things.

I want more time.

I want more ordinary Tuesdays.

I want more cups of tea.

I want more phone calls.

I want more “Can you help me with this?”

I want more hugs.

I want more of the things we usually don’t realize are priceless until they’re gone.

And maybe that’s why this stage of life feels so strange.

Because in your 40s, you are standing in the middle.

You are old enough to understand that death is real.

You have watched friends bury parents.

You have watched clients collapse under the weight of decisions they never wanted to make.

You have watched people become orphans in real time, even though they are grown adults with jobs and mortgages and children of their own.

And yet, if your parents are still here, part of you is still living inside this fragile bubble of denial.

You know it’s coming.

But you don’t know how to let yourself know.

Not fully.

Because how do you prepare for the loss of the people who have always existed?

How do you prepare for a world where their phone number still exists, but they don’t answer?

How do you prepare for being the one who has to make the decisions?

The paperwork.

The hospital calls.

The funeral home.

The house.

The belongings.

The family dynamics.

The final wishes.

The grief that doesn’t care if you understand logistics.

And for me, there’s another layer.

I’m an only child.

And being an only child is both a blessing and an Achilles heel.

There is a blessing in not having to negotiate every decision with siblings.

I see so many clients and friends go through absolute emotional warfare with their brothers and sisters when a parent becomes ill or dies.

Everyone has an opinion.

Everyone has a wound.

Everyone has a different memory of who Mom was, who Dad was, who did enough, who didn’t show up, who gets what, who deserves what, who was the favourite, who sacrificed more.

Grief has a way of ripping the lid off every unhealed family pattern.

So yes, there is a part of me that feels grateful I may not have to fight through a room full of people’s projections and overreactions when the time comes.

But there is also the other side.

The side that feels like a weight in my chest.

Because one day, I may have to carry those decisions without blood family beside me.

I may have to be the one.

The one who answers the call.

The one who signs the papers.

The one who walks into the house.

The one who chooses what stays and what goes.

The one who has to keep breathing while my whole inner world is breaking.

And that thought is enough to bring me to my knees.

But this is also where the truth cracked open for me.

Because maybe that’s exactly why I needed to write this.

Because the truth is, we are not meant to do this alone.

Even if we are only children.

Even if we don’t have close siblings.

Even if our family system is fractured.

Even if blood family isn’t safe, available, emotionally capable, or alive.

We are still not meant to do grief alone.

Somewhere along the way, especially in midlife, we start to understand that family is not always the people we were born into.

Sometimes family is the friend who tells you the truth with love.

Sometimes family is the person who sits beside you while you cry and doesn’t try to fix it.

Sometimes family is the one who shows up with food, tissues, a shovel, a truck, a plan, or just their presence.

Sometimes family is the group chat that checks in.

Sometimes family is the friend who says, “I’ll come with you.”

Sometimes family is the person who can hold your grief without making it about them.

And if you have done your work in your 40s, your friendships start to look different.

You may not have dozens and dozens of people around you anymore.

You may not have the big social circle you had in your 20s.

You may not be available for surface-level friendships, performative relationships, or people who only know how to take.

But the ones who remain?

The real ones?

They are the salt of the earth.

They are the people who have earned access to your life.

They are the people who can sit around the metaphorical campfire and talk about the things most people avoid.

Death.

Fear.

Aging.

Grief.

Regret.

Love.

Parents.

The ache of being human.

The strange privilege of still being someone’s child while also becoming the adult in the room.

And maybe that is one of the initiations of your 40s.

You start realizing that life is not just about building.

It’s also about losing.

It’s about softening.

It’s about telling the truth before it’s too late.

It’s about letting yourself love people while they are still here.

It’s about paying attention to the ordinary moments because one day they will become the memories you would give anything to step back into.

The hug.

The pantry.

The phone call.

The ride home.

The annoying comment.

The same old story.

The chair they always sit in.

The way their house smells.

The way your nervous system exhales when you walk in the door.

This is the stuff.

This is the inheritance.

Not the money.

Not the house.

Not the things.

The real inheritance is the imprint of being loved.

And maybe this is why grief is so terrifying.

Because grief is not just sadness.

Grief is love with nowhere to go.

And when our parents are still here, maybe some part of us already knows that the love is so big, the loss will be too.

So we avoid thinking about it.

We make jokes.

We say, “Don’t talk like that.”

We change the subject.

We stay busy.

We tell ourselves we’ll deal with it when we have to.

But our bodies know.

Our hearts know.

Somewhere deep inside, we know that one day we will cross a threshold we cannot uncross.

And maybe the invitation isn’t to obsess over that day.

Maybe it isn’t to live in fear.

Maybe it’s to let the truth make us more present.

Call your mom.

Hug your dad.

Ask the questions.

Take the photo.

Drop by the house.

Let them feed you.

Let yourself be annoyed and grateful at the same time.

Let yourself be someone’s child while you still can.

And if you are already on the other side of this — if your parents are no longer here — please know this:

I see you differently now.

I see the strength it must take to keep living in a world where the people who made you are no longer physically in it… earthside.

I see the invisible moments nobody else sees.

The holidays.

The birthdays.

The phone calls you can’t make.

The grief that sneaks up in grocery stores, songs, smells, recipes, paperwork, and quiet mornings.

I see why this deserves more than a shallow conversation.

I see why my friend told me I didn’t dig deep enough.

Because this is deep.

This is one of the deepest things we will ever face.

And maybe the only way through it is together.

Around the campfire.

With the real friends.

With the ones who can hold both laughter and devastation in the same breath.

With the ones who understand that in your 40s, life gets more honest.

More fragile.

More sacred.

More real.

And maybe that’s the point.

Maybe this season is not just teaching us about loss.

Maybe it is teaching us how to love what is still here.

Before it becomes what we miss.

Michelle Palma

Purple MoonHealing Group