“Loving someone deeply is learning the art of holding and letting go at almost the same time.” ~Unknown
As she slowly retreated from the world, nothing softened me or challenged me, like the care of my 96-year-old mother. I thought I was strong, but this is another kind of strength, rooted in surrender rather than control.
She once moved in with rhythm and faith. Kingdom Hall was present for over 60 years, dressed with sharp respect and dignity. She is often a great Christian woman compared to Julie Andrews for her beauty and brilliant bounty. But now she rarely leaves her robe. She sleeps all day. The services she once cherished remain unplayed. She says she is tired and feels “off.” That’s all.
I hurt to make her recover who she is. But encouragement and gestures cannot bring that version of her back. Something inside me continues to reach for her past, even though she is still calming down on her present.
As someone was used to teaching, creating and teaching, I built my life around helping others move forward. I’m solution oriented. I try to inspire change.
But I can’t fix this. I can’t hold her in her time. “When we can no longer change the situation, we are challenged to change ourselves,” wrote Victor Frankl, a psychiatrist and Holocaust survivor. That quote feels particularly personal right now. I can’t change what’s going on with my mother, so I can alleviate my resistance. I can change the way I show up.
Walking each other home
There is a beautiful quote by Ram Dass who returns to me in this quiet moment. I think about it when I bring her a bowl of soup, hold her hand, or whisper “I love you.”
I’m not here to bring her back to life. I walk by her here, as she lets go of this chapter – imperfect, faithful –
I often think of Pope John Paul II, who remained extremely caring while he was bedridden on the last days of his life. As his body failed, he interpreted his suffering not as a burden, but as solidarity with the poor and sick. His vulnerability has become a gateway to a deeper understanding. That vision moved me deeply. Because that’s what I want to do. It is not just about caring for my mother, but also about transforming through compassion.
I studied meditation. I wrote about the existence of filmmaking and taught me. But this is the deepest form of mindfulness I’ve ever known daily care, raw emotions, the unknown.
Thich Nhat Hanh teaches, “When you love someone, the best thing you can offer is your presence.” So I’m trying to be there. Don’t fix it. It has not been explained. Just breathe. I’m just sitting by her side.
In Buddhism, nonpersistence is not a punishment, it is true. Everything is a beautiful fade. Clinging brings suffering. Peace comes from loving without grasping. It’s something I’m learning slowly as I witness her journey unfolds.
One day I feel like I’m failing. I lose patience. I say it too much and I say it too loudly. But I will reappear. I apologize. It will soften. I’ll learn.
I have a quiet love growing. It doesn’t look like an epic gesture. It appears to warm her tea with honey. Adjust her blanket. Before she could say anything, she realized she was cold. This is a slow and burning compassion. It’s like you don’t want anything in return. It’s not about being a hero. It’s about being human.
I thought Wisdom came from the people I spoke to the most. But now I rarely say some of the greatest teachers. My mother is almost silent and teaches me about humility, aging, and surrender.
Like Pope John Paul II, I want to turn my suffering into understanding. Feeling my heart open – don’t shut down – and to know that this isn’t just during her transition, it’s mine too.
Recently, my own health has begun to change – tumor degeneration, diastolic heart failure, blindness, persistent fatigue, and an increased sense of aging as well. At first, I resisted. I wanted to remain useful and powerful. But now I consider these changes to remind me: to live gently, to love perfectly, to be present. My body is not an issue. That’s the messenger. And the message is simple. This is not about me. It’s about how well I am showing up for her.
So, what am I learning here in this strange, quiet space between caregiving and sadness?
You don’t have to be perfect to be present. Love doesn’t always look like joy. Sometimes it looks like patience. Letting go is not a mistake. It is an expression of grace. There is growth even when there is loss. The end of one life chapter will open your heart to all of humanity.
I whisper before I go to sleep
Every night I make sure she is ready to sleep. Sometimes she’s dozing off. Sometimes she recognizes half. Sometimes she just stares at the TV. But every night I whisper, “I love you, mom.” Maybe she’s listening to me. Probably not. But I say it anyway – at this point, love is more about being than about reaction.
And now another quiet miracle has entered her world. Nuggets – A very cute and equally crazy little grey fierce pussy has become her closest companion. My mother didn’t really care about animals. She found them messy and far away. But the nuggets changed everything.
This little creature curls at her feet, climbs into her knees, and without a doubt she pars. And my mother responds – shaking her fur, talking gently, calling her “my little kitten.” It is pure, amazing and profound. The Nugget brings her back to the present in ways I can’t. She opens the door to kindness that remains closed for a long time.
Her mother still shares vivid stories from the distant past, but she forgets what happened an hour ago. Still, she knows me. She knows Nuggets. And for that, I am grateful.
I still hope to be able to do more. But I appear quite, imperfectly, with love. I walk her home as much as I can.
And with that walk, with that surrender, I’m beginning to understand what it means to be truly alive.
About Tony Collins
Tony Collins, EDD, MFA is a documentary filmmaker, teacher, musician, writer and consultant with 40 years of experience. His work explores creative expression, academic rigor and non-fiction storytelling throughout the United States, Central America, Asia and the United Arab Emirates. In 2025, he reconsidered self-publishing creative scholarships: reviews in films and new media, and challenges traditional academic reviews in films and new media. Website: anthonycollinsfilm.com
