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“I was constantly searching for a balance between mourning what had already been lost, making space for the hours and moments that still remained, and understanding this complicated process where my heart felt torn between two contrasting realities: hope and heartbreak.” ~Liz Newman
There’s a quiet heaviness that begins to settle in for many of us as we reach middle age.
It’s not like he announces himself in the drama. It’s reflected in the unanswered emails from my elderly parents, the half-asleep nights I spent wondering how I would be able to pay for live-in care, and whether that fall was the beginning of the end.
Not exactly sadness. It is the shadow of sadness that lingers in the face of loss, creeping into everyday moments and whispering that everything is slowly, quietly but unmistakably changing.
My mother has Parkinson’s disease. Although she lives alone in the UK and I live abroad, I am purposefully unbound and a traveling healer by choice, but I feel like my freedom comes at a price I haven’t calculated.
She started to fall. Looking backwards. Her voice almost disappeared. I can barely understand her over the phone anymore, and my stomach tightens every time she forgets a detail or struggles to find the words.
I wonder when her dementia will get so bad that she not only forgets my birthday, but also my eldest daughter, me. How long will she be able to live alone? What happens if things really get worse?
And I panic.
The truth is, you can’t just pack your bags and move to the UK. No more. There are no Brexit or visa restrictions. These days, my visits are short and limited to a few weeks or months at a time. Now I’m here for the summer and doing what I can to the best of my ability.
Add to that the financial uncertainty of running a treatment business and the lack of a steady income to support full-time care. All the weight calms down. Like many of us, I just keep it quiet and swallow my worries. I tuck it into my body and match the slope of my shoulders. To be precise, it’s the correct one.
One morning I woke up and my right arm wasn’t working as well as it used to. When I turn it inward, I feel severe pain in my upper arm. I think he was sleeping in a strange way at first. But when the pain lasts for days on end, it takes a toll on my hypochondriac side. I start googling the symptoms. And frozen shoulder appears.
I pause. Next, type in “The spiritual meaning of frozen shoulders.”
And everything clicks into place.
In spiritual traditions, shoulders are where we carry burdens that were never ours. That’s where we carry all the burden of responsibility, over-consideration, and the invisible weight of what’s not being said.
When our shoulders tighten, it may be our body telling us that it can’t carry any more weight.
Frozen shoulder can also mean:
Repressed sadness and emotions, often close to the heart Carrying too many responsibilities and the pain of others Fear of moving forward or feeling stuck Lack of energy boundaries The subconscious tries to stop you from moving when life demands change
All of these things reflect how I feel about my mother. Unexpected sadness. Feeling helpless. Feeling guilty. Being stuck between a country and a decision, between who you were and who you should become. I want to take care of her and sign a power of attorney, but equally, I don’t want to do any of it because it’s so painful.
The guilt of being middle-aged and not having a language
There is no manual for this stage of life. For the moment when the mother is still alive but slipping away. When you are still someone’s child and now also the silent parent. When love no longer feels light but fringed with fear and uncertainty.
And unlike childhood, this stage has no clear rites of passage. We often endure it quietly, bravely, and invisibly. We plan around it. we will get through it. We cry into our pillows about it.
We don’t want to seem selfish. We don’t want them to fail. We don’t want to paint a meaningful life and then go home and feel like we missed the most important chapter. Then your body begins to speak.
Regain yourself while loving your mother
Your shoulder may take some time to heal. Both physically and emotionally. But it was also an invitation to ask, “Where am I paying too much attention?” Where am I making sacrifices to prove my worth? What happens if you give yourself love and boundaries?
Maybe you don’t have to force yourself to stay all summer out of guilt for not living nearby.
I still don’t have an answer regarding my mother’s care. But I know this:
I don’t have to disappear to honor her. There is no need to cloud your joy in front of her, lest she feel the contrast of what she has lost. You don’t have to break your heart to be a good girl. You also don’t have to say yes to every request because you’re worried that someday she won’t be able to ask. You also don’t have to say “okay” when I’m not. You don’t have to put your dreams on hold to make up for the years you missed them, or carry the burden of not being able to stop them.
Perhaps the most fundamental thing we can do in a world where many of us live oceans away from our elderly parents is to stop trying to fit ourselves into the expectations of those we leave behind. our parents. our brothers. The chorus of ancestors and society: “You owe them everything.”
Because the truth is you can’t always go back. It’s different from previous generations. Villages are gone, visas are expiring, and the lives we have built stretch across time zones and cultures.
Perhaps we need to learn how to ease our guilt without hardening our hearts. I wonder if we can learn how to grieve distance without erasing ourselves. Can we find a new kind of middle ground, where love is measured not by geography, but by presence, sincerity, and the quiet ways we still show ourselves?
What if love was no longer a burden carved out of duty, but a bond bounded by tenderness?
If your shoulders also hurt, your chest feels heavy, or you feel any abnormality in your body, pause. Because we were never meant to disappear into devotion and have too much on our plate. We were meant to love with existence. To grieve gracefully. And to remain visible while still paying homage to where we come from.
I’ve come up with some tips for writing your own journal. If they help you in any way in your own journey, please feel free to do the same.
Journaling teaches us the gentle weight we carry.
1. Where in my body am I holding something that feels too heavy to say out loud? What does this part of me ultimately want to hear or honor?
2. What roles or responsibilities have I inherited culturally, ancestrally, or emotionally that I feel are no longer sustainable? Will I release them or reconsider them?
3. When you think about caring for an aging parent, what emotions arise beneath the surface, beyond duty? What fears, guilt, and sadness reside there?
4. What does love without self-sacrifice look like? Can I write a devoted version that includes my wholeness?
5. If my body were writing me a letter right now about the way I was living, what would it say? What boundaries or changes would I need to consider?
If so, please share what you learned in the comments.
