Why I’m Listening to My Aging Mother More Deeply Now

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“When an old person dies, a library burns to the ground.” ~African Proverb

For most of my life, I thought aging was about bodies slowing down—hair turning white, memory fading, steps getting shorter. But caring for my ninety-six-year-old mother has changed that. I now see something deeper and more painful: the slow erasure of wisdom in a culture that prizes the new, dismisses the old, and moves too fast to notice what it’s losing.

We live in a world that idolizes youth and innovation—new tech, new trends, new ideas. “Old” has become shorthand for “outdated.” When wisdom becomes invisible, we stop asking questions that matter, and we lose the guidance of those who have seen life’s full arc.

One afternoon, as my mother told me a story about her father, I realized something that shook me: if I don’t learn to be fully present with her now, I will not only lose her. I will lose the chance to carry her wisdom forward—and to know myself more deeply.

The Moment It Hit Me

The house was bathed in late-afternoon light, soft and gold. My mother sat across from me, recalling her childhood—ration cards during the war, the first time she heard music on a radio.

Then she stopped mid-sentence. The silence stretched. I felt my familiar impatience rise—that tug to finish her thought, to move on, to get back to my to-do list.

But this time, I stayed.

I stayed through the silence and felt something shift. The pause wasn’t empty—it was full of her effort, her dignity, her reaching through time for something that mattered. If I rushed her, I would erase more than her memory. I would erase her right to find it.

At that moment, I understood that listening is not just kindness. It is preservation—of her story, our relationship, and my own capacity to stay present when life gets hard.

What I Learned About Decline

Caring for an elder is not simply about keeping them safe, fed, or medicated. It’s about bearing witness as their world grows smaller.

Witnessing is not passive. It is active work—the work of noticing subtle shifts in tone, the way their eyes light up at a song they still remember, the pride they feel when they can still tell a story no one else alive remembers.

This process has taught me that dignity is not about staying strong forever. Dignity is about being seen and valued all the way to the end. And that is something we can give to each other—if we are willing to slow down.

The Cost of a Culture That Looks Away

Our society moves at high speed, and it is easier to avert our eyes from aging, decline, and death. Youth is celebrated. Age is feared. “Old” becomes something to hide, something to fix, or worse, something to ignore.

But every time we look away—even just emotionally—we lose something irreplaceable. We lose not only their stories but also the chance to prepare ourselves for the same journey.

These moments of care have become some of the most alive moments of my life. They have taught me patience, tenderness, and a kind of presence no app, no book, no productivity hack could teach.

And they have reminded me that one day, I will be the one searching for words, hoping someone is patient enough to stay.

A Gentle Practice

We can resist the rush and recover the habit of listening. Try this:

Ask one question. It can be small: “What did Sundays look like when you were ten?”

Wait. Let the silence do its work. Let them find the memory.

Preserve it. Write it down or record it—not just for history, but for your own heart. Even one memory saved is a piece of the library kept from burning.

Lessons I Carry Forward

My time with my mother has shown me that love is measured not by big, dramatic gestures but by the willingness to stay—to keep showing up, even when it is inconvenient, even when it breaks your heart.

It has taught me that listening is not passive. It is an act of reverence, a way of saying, “You still matter. Your voice still matters.”

And it has challenged me to push back against a culture that treats wisdom as disposable. The elders are not holding us back. They are holding the map of where we’ve been so we don’t lose our way.

So I choose to stay, to listen, to honor what is fading instead of rushing past it. Because one day, I will be the one pausing mid-sentence, searching for a memory—and I will hope someone stays long enough to let me find it.