Should I Care for My Parent? Things to Consider

Hi friends, this post is going out to all subscribers, though in the future these deeper reflections will be for paid subscribers. I want to share more personal stories alongside practical tools — some will be mindsets to hold, others how-to guides, and others dispositions to practice. This is the kind of writing you can expect from me going forward.

While caregiving is at the center, I hope these reflections meet you in other parts of your life too. Whether you’re caring for a child, navigating a big life change, going through menopause, or simply learning new ways to care for yourself and those around you — care can always take many forms if we pause long enough to think about it.

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Most people begin their caregiving journey in their 40s or 50s, sometimes later if their parents live longer. For some, it’s a few chaotic months of sudden decline. For others, it stretches across decades. My story: I fall into the latter category. I started in my late 20s.

At first, I thought sending money from afar would be enough. But deep down, as a former preschool teacher, I knew that wasn’t the kind of care my family needed — or what any family actually needs. Still, it’s not that simple.

My parents never expected us to look after them. When I was 18, still in high school, they handed me the FAFSA form and told me to work with a financial advisor to figure it out. That was their definition of adulthood.

My mom grew up in Japan, where she had to pay her own college tuition while her brothers had theirs covered. She decided to forgo college and work instead. My dad began working after middle school because that’s where mandatory education ended. That was their generation’s norm, and it shaped how they parented us: love, yes, but no hand-holding.

So when my mom got sick, caregiving wasn’t an expectation. There were nags about career and marriage — the usual “good Japanese woman” standard — but not about moving home. My dad straddled both worlds: the “American parent” (more openly affectionate) and the “Japanese parent” (strict about work and family).

The first years after my mom’s diagnosis were brutal. Depression, weight loss, hospitalizations. A severe case of shingles left her unable to eat and bedridden for weeks. I’d take a few days off and fly home. It was a shock to see how small she got so quickly. Recovery was slow and often harder without Japanese-speaking staff in hospitals. She would wake in the night, disoriented and scared, and we weren’t allowed to stay. We left notes for her instead. Years later, after a few of these repeated incidents (& getting worse with time) advocacy later opened doors for me to be by her side.

Today, bills like AB 960 – Ensure Caregiver Access in Hospitals – could make that presence a right, not a privilege. It passed the Legislature without opposition and now awaits the Governor of California’s signature. Wild, right? Even something so basic still has to become law.

Meanwhile, my dad and brother carried the day-to-day care. In Japanese households, it’s rare for two men to take on that role. My father — who barely knew how to cook rice — taught himself to cook, clean, and manage the house at 74 years old. I guess you can teach an old dog new tricks, so to speak. I flew home every few weeks to stock the freezer with my mom’s recipes and give her baths, one of the hardest parts of dementia care.

Over time, my visits turned into weekly check-ins. Then COVID hit, and the closeness of death made one thing clear: I couldn’t keep caregiving from afar. Moving back after 18 years in San Francisco wasn’t easy. People told me I was “crazy” to give up so much social capital. In policy and politics, your network is your lifeline — and I was walking away from mine. But I also knew this: a career can be rebuilt. Lost time with my parents cannot.

My mom is my best friend. She wrote me stacks of cards over the years, reminding me I was her perfect daughter, her pride, her joy. During the tough years trying to build a career, those letters reminded me I had a number one fan. I am not like those K-pop stars with so many “number ones”; I had one number one, and it was my mom. Even if she forgets what I’ve done for her, I’ll never forget her devotion to me. Moving home was my way of rooting for her as fiercely as she rooted for me.

It wasn’t easy. The transition was as difficult as people warned. I felt lonely - alone most of the time. I missed San Francisco. But every Sunday, I committed the whole day to giving my dad and brother a break. Eventually, the toll became too much for my brother, and he had to step back.

That’s the hard truth: 40% of Alzheimer’s caregivers die before the person they’re caring for. (source: Women’s Brain Health Initiative) Additionally, a Stanford University study reported that caregivers have a 63% higher mortality rate than non-caregivers.

The decision to move home — to “drop everything” — is not easy. Sometimes it comes from obligation. Sometimes guilt. Sometimes love. Sometimes self-protection. Sometimes it’s simply impossible. Every story is different.

For me, it came from love. My mom spent her life caring for us without complaint, even when she was exhausted. I wanted to give that back. Everything else could work itself out. And while it hasn’t all worked out perfectly and I felt some deep disappointments throughout the years back home, I have no regrets.

Some people might feel that, after all my parents sacrificed, I should use that foundation to build a different life, not return home. And for you, or for your parents, that might be the truth. That’s also okay.

Society will judge. You might feel a cultural backlash. Politicians will use it as a grandstanding speech on why they won’t fund more care policies if the “family doesn’t care.”. But unless you’ve been through it, no one really knows the cycle of grief you endure during these years. It is never an easy decision. Whichever path you choose, there is no single “right” one.

We only get one life. (I know, it sounds cheesy, but hear me out.) If obligation or guilt drives your decision, the path may be painful — and it can take a real toll on your health. Those statistics exist because the weight is that heavy. I’m saying this bluntly because I care about you, too. If love or self-honesty drives it, even the hardest moments can carry meaning.

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Things to Consider If You’re Weighing Caregiving for a Parent

Start with yourself. Be patient with reflection. Ask: What season of life am I in? What support do I have? What are my limits?

Know the scope. Caregiving is physical, emotional, financial, and logistical. Talk with doctors, social workers, and financial advisors early. Don’t make decisions alone.

Accept your truth. Whether your decision is rooted in love, duty, guilt, or preservation, it’s valid. Naming it lightens the weight.

Think about sustainability. No one can do this alone. Build your village — even if it feels impossible at first. (I’ll share more on how I built mine in a future post.)

Make space for both grief and gratitude. Caregiving can break you open, but it can also deepen bonds and create unexpected gifts.

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If you’re asking yourself, Should I care for my parent or not? — give yourself permission to wrestle with it honestly. There’s no single right answer. Whatever you choose, may it let you live fully, with both honesty and love.

And if siblings land in a different place, that’s okay too — though it can be hard. Accepting their truth and their grief journey takes time. What I’ve learned is that loving someone and caring for them are not the same thing. I don’t doubt my siblings’ love for our mom, but I’ve also had to accept that love doesn’t always come with the capacity — or willingness — to provide care.

I hear a lot of feedback on my caregiving journey. I appreciate when people share what they observe — it helps me feel seen in this often invisible job. Most of the comments frame what I’m doing as honorable, but that’s not how I experience it. What I hope you see instead is a glimpse of how much love I’ve received from my mother, and how much thought I’ve put into giving that love back.

I’m also on this journey to show that caregiving doesn’t always have to feel like an unbearable crossroads — a burden, a “sandwich,” or a trap. It can feel different. Preparation, honesty, and care — for yourself and your loved one — can make it feel possible.