Caught in the Middle

When I was growing up, I believed that adulthood came with freedom. Freedom to make my own choices. Freedom to live on my own terms.

But no one told me that adulthood also comes with invisible chains - expectations, responsibilities, and sacrifices that tighten with time.

I'm 38 years old. I have two children. I have aging parents. And I'm stuck right in the middle.

They call us the Sandwich Generation - people who care for their kids while also caring for their aging parents.

And let me tell you: being the filling isn't as soft as it sounds.

The Constant Juggle

My mornings start before the sun rises.

I wake up, make breakfast, pack lunchboxes, and wake my kids - ages 7 and 10 - for school. While they eat, I check on my mother, who lives with us now. She's 72, forgetful, and not as steady on her feet anymore.

"Did I take my pills?" she asks every morning.

Some days, she's lucid. Other days, she doesn't remember my name. It's terrifying how quickly someone can fade before your eyes.

After I drop the kids at school, I go to work - remote, thankfully, but still full-time. I take meetings with one eye on my inbox and the other on my mother's movement around the house. She once put the kettle on without water and almost caused a fire.

At 3 PM, I pause to pick up the kids, help with homework, prepare dinner, and make sure my mother eats too. Then bedtime routines begin - two children who need cuddles, stories, and reassurance, and one parent who needs help getting into bed.

By 10 PM, I collapse.

But my mind doesn't.

I lie awake wondering:

• Am I giving enough to my kids?
• Am I neglecting my mother's needs?
• When was the last time I did something just for me?

The Invisible Weight

People see me and say, "You're doing so well. I don't know how you do it."

But they don't see me the silent breakdowns in the shower. The way I cry while folding laundry. The resentment I bury every time I cancel a plan because someone needs me more.

There's a grief that comes with being the strong one. A quiet, gnawing loneliness. Because even when you're surrounded by people, you can feel completely unseen.

And guilt-god, the guilt - sits with me like a second skin.

I feel guilty when I lose my patience with my kids. Guilty when I snap at my mother. Guilty for missing deadlines at work. Guilty for wanting a day off - from everything.

It's exhausting to love everyone else so deeply, and feel like there's no room left for yourself.

When the Breaking Point Comes

Last winter, I hit my breaking point.

My mother had a bad fall. My son was down with the flu. I had a big project due. I hadn't slept properly in three nights.

That day, my daughter spilled a glass of juice on the carpet, and I screamed. Not yelled. Screamed.

She stared at me, eyes wide and full of tears. And in that moment, I saw myself from the outside - frazzled, overwhelmed, and completely disconnected from the kind of mother I wanted to be.

That night, I sat on the bathroom floor, shaking.

"I can't do this anymore," I whispered. And this time, I meant it.

The Turning Point

I knew I needed help. Real help.

So the next day, I called a therapist. I found a support group for adult caregivers. I talked to my siblings - finally - and told them I needed them to step in more often. For the first time, I said it out loud, "I can't carry this alone."

It didn't fix everything. But it helped.

I also started saying "no" more often. No to extra work. No to birthday party invites. No to things that drained me without giving anything back.

I carved out 20 minutes a day just for myself. Sometimes I walked around the block. Sometimes I just sat in silence with tea.

It felt selfish at first. But I slowly learned that boundaries aren't walls - they're bridges to a more sustainable life.

Finding Grace in the Chaos

There are still hard days. Days when my mother forgets who I am. Days when my son throws tantrums and my daughter clings to me, sensing I'm barely holding it together.

But there are good days too.

Days when we all laugh over dinner. Days when my mother hums an old lullaby and my kids join in. Moments of stillness where I feel, maybe this isn't forever - but it matters.

Because in all the exhaustion, there is love.

A tired, tangled kind of love. But real. And worth it.

To Anyone Else in the Middle

If you're also part of this generation that's holding everyone together:

I see you.

You are not weak for feeling tired. You are not selfish for needing space. You are not failing jusr because you're struggling.

You are doing an impossible thing with so much heart.

And while the world may not always notice - Your presence, your care, your effort....

It matters.

Don't wait for someone to give you permission to rest.

Take it.

You cannot pour from an empty cup, no matter how noble your intentions.

This Too Shall Shift

My therapist once told me something that stays with me:

"You are the glue now, yes. But someday, your children will remember how you held it all together. Not perfectly - but with courage."

That's the legacy I want to leave.

Not a spotless house. Not a perfect record. But the memory of a mother who kept showing up, even when she was breaking.

A woman who learned, finally, that taking care of herself was not abandonment - but survival.

To every member of the Sandwich Generation:

We may be the ones in the middle, but that doesn't mean we have to be forgotten.

We're not just holding space. We're shaping futures. And that deserves to be seen.

"Being strong doesn't mean doing it all alone. It means knowing when to ask for help - and letting it in."