Today is my parents’ wedding anniversary.

They won’t be celebrating because they are dead.

That sentence sounds harsher than it needs to, but it’s the truth. My mom died about six years ago and my dad followed about a year and a half later. Time keeps moving, even when the people who helped start it for you are gone.

When they passed, I have to admit I didn’t feel as much as I expected to. That probably sounds cold. It wasn’t that I didn’t love them. They were terrific parents. I had a great childhood. They supported me through college and well beyond. If there was a “Parents Hall of Fame,” they’d at least make the regional ballot.

But like most children, I had my issues with them. And when they died, life was complicated.

My mom’s death was sudden. She collapsed at choir practice and that was it. One moment singing, the next moment gone.

My dad’s passing was the opposite. He had a disease that slowly wasted him for years. By the end, he couldn’t really hold a conversation for the last two years or more of his life.

When my mom died, I became the primary person helping with my dad. My sibling lives out of town and was wonderful, but the day-to-day stuff fell mostly to me simply because I was nearby.

So I didn’t really grieve my mom. Fifty percent of that is just my personality—I’m not the most outwardly emotional guy. The other fifty percent was that I was busy dealing with my dad.

And when my dad died, I didn’t grieve much then either. He had been sick for over a decade, and by the end his death felt like the end of suffering. Honestly, since he hadn’t been able to talk for years, it sometimes felt like he had been gone long before the official date on the death certificate.

But time does strange things.

Now, years later, I find myself deeply affected by their absence.

Part of that is probably because I’m going through the stage of life where you worry about your own kids. Mine are all doing fine—better than fine, actually—but that doesn’t stop my brain from inventing scenarios at 2 a.m.

And lately I’ve realized I would give just about anything to sit down with my parents for an hour.

I’d ask them questions.

How did you deal with me when I was screwing things up?
Did you worry about me the way I worry about my kids?
How did you keep it together when you had no idea how things would turn out?

I’m a lot like my dad when it comes to worrying, anxiety, and a general desire to control outcomes that are, in reality, completely uncontrollable. His behavior used to drive me nuts when I was growing up.

Now I find I’m basically his twin.

That happens.

What makes it harder is that I see some of the same tendencies in one of my kids, and I would give anything for him not to be that way. It’s a miserable way to live—always scanning the horizon for problems that may never come.

A few months ago, when I was struggling a bit, I did something I never thought I’d do. I went to their graves.

Not for any mystical reason. I didn’t expect answers. I’m fairly certain cemeteries have terrible customer service when it comes to responding to questions.

But it was meditative.

They didn’t answer anything, of course. And I realized something while I was there: nobody ever will. Friends can tell me how they handled their kids, but nobody can tell me how my parents handled me.

That knowledge went with them.

Which leaves me with the only thing I can actually do: be mindful of the time I have with my own children.

My parents’ time with me ended sooner than I ever imagined. Mine with my kids will too.

So today, on their anniversary, I’ll probably call my sister like I usually do. In the past, I’d say, “Hey, thinking about Mom and Dad today,” even though if I’m being honest, I probably hadn’t been until that moment.

It was the polite thing to say.

This year it won’t be polite.

It will be true.

I think about them most days now.

And if they were still here, I’d probably spend that hour asking them questions… and then another hour thanking them for putting up with me.  I was a decent son, but I couldv’e been so much better.  You’re right, Mom, it wouldn’t kill me to call once in a while.

Now that I have kids of my own, I realize something important:

They deserved a medal and, sadly, I feel very guilty that I wasn’t a better son (again, I was fine, but now that my own kids treat me the way I treated them, I feel terrible.  If I made them feel like my kids make me feel?  Sheesh…although, that’s what kids finding their independence/way do and so maybe I don’t wish it was different…but really, would it kill them to call or text once in awhile?”

You know that old saying, “No news is good news”? Yeah, well, whoever came up with that never had 20-something kids out in the world. For me, no news is the exact opposite. No news means something is definitely wrong.

Every silence? Proof they’re slipping deeper into mental illness. Every delay in answering? Clearly drugs. Every time they don’t confirm they’re fine in the last three minutes? They’ve just made a catastrophic life decision.

Living in DEFCON 1

I’m basically living in a Cold War bunker inside my own head. Except instead of watching Russia, I’m tracking my kids. Every minute of the day is a red alert.

Normal parent thought: “They’re probably busy.”
My thought: “They’re probably face down in a ditch, and I should start preparing a statement for the press conference.”

It doesn’t matter if they texted me two hours ago. In my mind, that’s plenty of time for their lives to have completely unraveled.

Coping Skills That Don’t Stand a Chance

• Meditation? I close my eyes and immediately picture the ambulance.
• Mindfulness? Yeah, I’m mindful that silence equals disaster. Thanks.
• Exercise? Great, now my heart rate is high for two reasons and I’ve had thirty minutes to imagine even worse scenarios.

Basically, all the coping tricks experts suggest just give me extra time to imagine new horrors.

The Cruel Joke

Here’s the punchline: I’m the one falling apart. They’re out living their blissful 20-something lives—going to brunch, posting Instagram stories, probably rolling their eyes at my worried texts—while I’m the one who’s going to die first.

Not from old age, not from illness, but from being the unpaid, full-time security guard of their lives.

So What Now?

I don’t have an answer yet. I wish I did. I know I can’t keep going like this forever, but I also know turning it off isn’t as simple as everyone says. For now, all I can do is admit it: I’m exhausted, I’m scared, and I’m trying to laugh at it a little, because otherwise I’ll just cry..and I have done a lot of that.  As I type this, I’m doing all I can to finish my work day without having a major panic attack.  I’m a freaking mess.

Maybe one day I’ll be able to believe “no news is good news.” But today? No news feels like the loudest, scariest news in the world.

I thought I was ready for this stage of life. I mean, isn’t this what we raise kids for? To grow up, move out, and build lives of their own? That’s what everyone says. But I guess I never listened when anyone says how hard it can feel to suddenly go from being at the center of their everyday world to standing on the sidelines, hoping they’re okay.  I thought I would LOVE this stage.  All the free time.  All the “me” time.

It was so much simpler when they were little. They’d come home from school, drop their backpack, and I’d hear all about their day—who said what, what teacher gave too much homework, which friend made them laugh. I knew what time they went to bed, what they ate, and who they hung out with. I was part of the rhythm of their lives.

Now? I have no idea what time they go to sleep, who they’re with, or what struggles they’re quietly carrying. College and post-college life don’t exactly come with daily updates. Some days I hear a lot, other days I hear nothing. And in that silence, my mind fills in the blanks—sometimes with pride, most of the time with worry (okay, all the time with worry), and sometimes with a longing to know more. I find myself needing/wanting constant validation/confirmation that they are okay every minute of the day.  My mind won’t rest until I know for sure they are good.  It’s killing me (probably literally, the amount of stress can’t be healthy)

The hardest part is watching from afar when I do know they’re struggling. Stress about jobs, friendships, direction—it’s all part of becoming an adult, I know that. And I know I can’t fix it. As much as I want to swoop in with advice, connections, or even just a hug, I also know that if I try to fix everything, I’m robbing them of the lessons they only learn by figuring it out themselves. Growth doesn’t come from having life smoothed out for you. It comes from navigating the rough edges.

Still, it’s tough. There’s a helplessness in this stage of parenting that no one really prepares you for. The job now isn’t to manage their lives—it’s to trust them to live it. My role has shifted from director to cheerleader. I can’t control the play anymore, but I can be in the stands, rooting for them, even when I wish I could step in and call the next move.

I’d love to end this on a hopeful note or a piece of encouragement, but honestly? I’m not there yet. Right now, it feels like I’m still riding the struggle bus. What I would like is to meet up with other parents over a beer or two and talk about it all. Most “groups” I’ve found seem to be for parents dealing with much more serious issues, and that’s not what this is. This is just… normal, everyday hard.

One thing I’ve learned—belatedly—is that for all the times I thought of myself as an introvert or loner, I actually wish I had more friends to see regularly. Turns out, this parenting stage is a whole lot easier if you don’t try to go through it entirely on your own.

I’m an definitely NOT in a flow state lately 🙂