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.

I recently had a routine dental visit turn into something much bigger.

What began as a simple replacement of an old filling quickly escalated into a crown - $450 out of pocket - followed by pain when I drank cold beverages, and the unwelcome news that the same tooth now required a root canal. That procedure alone cost me another $725, paid directly to an endodontist. And I’m not finished yet. I still need to return to my regular dentist to permanently fill the opening in the crown - another out-of-pocket expense waiting just around the corner.

I’m fortunate. I have dental insurance and access to care, and I am working so I can pay these costs. And even so, I found myself wincing - not from the procedure (which was surprisingly painless), but from the bill.

I recently attended a gathering of local nonprofit CEOs to talk openly about the unprecedented challenges our organizations are facing today — from tightening budgets and workforce capacity concerns to the growing needs in our communities.

While the conversation surfaced many real and pressing challenges, there was also a bright and hopeful theme that emerged: the opportunity presented by Baby Boomers.

The United States is currently experiencing the largest retirement-driven workforce transition in its history. Millions of Boomers, born between 1946 and 1964, are reaching age 65, and many are retiring or shifting away from full-time work through 2029. This demographic shift, while challenging for many sectors, presents a meaningful opportunity for nonprofits.

I’m going to begin this column with two simple, everyday observations, both shaped by my experience as an older adult navigating our community. One happens behind the wheel. The other happens on foot.

Let’s start with driving.

My dry cleaner, bank, and coffee shop are all in the same strip mall. It’s a familiar spot, with parking on both sides of a narrow roadway running through the middle. I’m careful when backing out of a parking space before turning to leave, but even so, I often find myself hitting the brakes as a car speeds past behind me or a pedestrian suddenly appears in my path while I’m in reverse.