A few weeks ago, a gentleman I know came by my office to share a story he thought might serve as a lesson for others. He wasn't looking for sympathy—he was hoping his experience might help someone avoid a similar situation.

He wasn't asking anyone to intervene. In fact, he told me he was a little embarrassed about what had happened.

His hope was simple: perhaps his experience might help someone else avoid the same situation.

He had recently seen an online advertisement for dryer vent cleaning. The price seemed reasonable—just $69. Like many of us would, he clicked, scheduled an appointment, and expected a straightforward service call.

As my 50th high school reunion approaches, I find myself wondering what emotion will greet me first.

Will it be excitement? Curiosity? Anxiety?

Will I recognize everyone? More importantly, will they recognize me?

Like many of my classmates, I have spent some time thinking about who I was at 18 and what I imagined life would become. Back then, the future seemed limitless. We were all heading off in different directions, certain we had plenty of time to figure everything out.

There’s something powerful that happened at our center last month. No applause.  Just a small group of people, gathering week after week for a class, choosing to talk about something many of us would rather avoid—our memory.

Not the class itself - that matters, of course. But what has stayed with me wasn’t the curriculum. It was the people.

As I saw them entering the building, I recognized faces.

A longtime donor who, for years, has supported our work. Someone I used to see in one of our support groups. A gentleman I’ve chatted with at a local restaurant during happy hour. A friend of a friend I met years ago.

There are certain people we never forget, not because they were famous or powerful, but because they showed up for us when we needed them most.

When I was 11 years old, I spent months in the hospital, an hour away from where we lived. It was frightening, isolating, and at times incredibly lonely for a child. Of course, my parents were there constantly, surrounding me with love. But there was another group of people who quietly carried me through that difficult season as well: older adults.

Caregiver guilt is one of those quiet feelings that rarely gets named out loud, yet so many people carry it.

It shows up in small moments - a thought that lingers after you leave a loved one’s home, a second-guessing of a decision, a subtle feeling that no matter what you’re doing, it’s not quite enough.

And perhaps the hardest part is this: the guilt shows up even when you’re doing what’s actually needed in the moment.

I was reminded of this recently after a caregiving talk.

Caregiver guilt is one of those quiet feelings that rarely gets named out loud, yet so many people carry it.

It shows up in small moments - a thought that lingers after you leave a loved one’s home, a second-guessing of a decision, a subtle feeling that no matter what you’re doing, it’s not quite enough.

And perhaps the hardest part is this: the guilt shows up even when you’re doing what’s actually needed in the moment.

I was reminded of this recently after a caregiving talk.

It started with a missed appointment—something small enough to brush off, yet just unusual enough to stay with her.

My friend Mary has always been organized, the one who keeps track of everything. So when she forgot a long-standing lunch, she told herself it was simply a busy week. But when it happened again—a misplaced bill, a repeated story, a growing sense that something wasn’t quite right—what began as a moment turned into a question she couldn’t easily answer: Is this just aging, or is it something more?

At some point, many of us hear the same phrase after an X-ray or MRI: “You have degenerative changes.” It sounds ominous, and when you hear it - especially in connection with your spine - it can feel unsettling.

I heard those words recently myself.

After several weeks of discomfort in my neck and upper shoulder on the right side, and pain that began to radiate down toward my elbow, I tried to do what many of us do. I pushed through, used heat, reached for Biofreeze, adjusted my sleep position, and told myself it would pass. When it didn’t, I finally went to the doctor.

Every so often someone will say to me, “My friend asked me to be their power of attorney,” or “I’ve been asked to serve as a trustee.”

Usually, the question that follows is simple: Should I do it?

The answer, of course, depends. Sometimes it is one of the most meaningful ways we can help someone we care about. But too often people say yes without fully understanding what the role involves—and that can lead to stress, conflict, and situations that are much harder to navigate than anticipated.

Recently, a dear friend of mine asked if I would serve as his medical power of attorney. My friend is single, has no close children, and wanted someone he trusted to help if he were unable to make medical decisions for himself.

My mom is 92 and, remarkably, still pretty independent.

She lives in her own home. She reads. She cooks. She putters. She watches her shows. She still insists she’s “fine.” And in many ways, she is.

But aging has a way of turning even “fine” into a team sport.

There are three of us sisters. We all love our mom fiercely. We all care deeply. We all show up — just in very different ways.

One sister lives a mile away. She’s the one who gets the phone call when the TV won’t work. The call when the internet is acting up. The “I feel a little dizzy” moments. The winter rides to doctor’s appointments when the roads are icy.

Recently, a friend shared something with me that quietly broke my heart for him.

His wife has advanced Alzheimer’s. She lives in a care community now. She no longer recognizes him. Their conversations are brief. Sometimes she smiles at him the way she might smile at any kind visitor. Their shared jokes, their history, those knowing glances across a room — those things are gone.

And yet, he still visits. Still pays the bills. Still advocates for her care.

He is, in every way, a devoted husband.

He’s also lonely.