To Remain Centered | Blog 3 of 15 in the Soulfull Aging series
Throughout my career in healthcare, especially in out-of-hospital elderly care, I’ve had the privilege of spending time with older individuals.
We talked about life. About loss. About love and joy. I got to hear their stories—firsthand, quietly, honestly. Seeing them sit by a window in silence often brought me back to myself.
Their stillness mirrored something I recognized: those quiet moments of self-reflection I’ve come to know in my own life.
Working in elderly care taught me more than any textbook ever could. Yes, I learned about the physical process of aging. But even more, I learned about the emotional and spiritual layers that come with it.
The more time I spent with the elderly, the more I understood that aging is not just about the body.
It’s about letting go, re-evaluating, and finding peace with life as it is.
I’m fifty three plus now.
And though I still have time ahead of me,
I know that those years in elder care prepared me for what’s to come.
Watching my own parents grow older gave me a quiet kind of knowing.
It softened me.
It helped me through menopause.
It helped me appreciate my changing body, and welcome this new phase of life.
And it helped me stay grounded—especially in a world that’s speeding up through technology.
What I’ve learned is this:
Change is part of life. Every day.
And if we can meet it with calm, we become more resilient.
If we stay centered, we stop chasing after solutions.
We learn to wait. We learn to listen.
We learn to trust what shows up.
Family Dynamics During End-of-Life
There’s one story I always return to. It wasn’t a dramatic moment. But it stayed with me. Because it showed what is possible.
I was working a night shift in geriatric care.
An elderly woman was nearing the end of her life.
We had already spoken to the family.
They knew she likely wouldn’t recover.
They were prepared.
That evening, eight family members gathered.
They sat quietly around her bed or in the nearby room.
No tension. No panic. No one trying to take control.
They simply held space—for her, for each other.
It was rare. Still. Loving. Complete.
Over the weekend, I kept checking in.
They took turns holding her hand.
Someone brought her favorite food.
Someone played soft music.
Tears came and went freely.
There was no pretending.
No one had to protect anyone from emotion.
Early Monday morning, she passed away.
And they were there.
Peaceful. Quiet. Together.
A Rare Kind of Grace
I told them how rare they were.
In over two decades of working with aging and dying patients,
I had only seen a handful of families like theirs.
Because most families are not prepared.
Not emotionally. Not relationally.
Old wounds tend to rise:
Unspoken pain. Family roles. Childhood stories.
Favoritism, blame, distance.
And grief makes it louder.
I’ve seen siblings fight by the bedside.
I’ve seen grief turn into blame.
I’ve seen people yell at dying parents—
not out of hate, but because no one taught them how to let go.
What That Table Taught Me
The image of those eight chairs stayed with me. Eight people, calm and connected.
It reminded me that Death doesn’t have to break us, but that it can be a time of healing, if we’re open and present to the emotions and feeligns inside ourselves.
And that Presence matters more than perfection.
And I began to ask myself:
Who will sit at my table, when my time comes?
What stories do I still carry, that need to be cleared?
What can I do now—while I’m well—to open those conversations?
This is not a guidance on how families should behave. It’s an invitation to use the example of that family to create a place of rest within a time of potential chaos.
Because when the moment comes, you only get one chance to walk through it.
Reflection Prompts
Who would be at the table if your loved one were nearing the end of life today?
What dynamics might emerge?
Are there unspoken tensions or stories in your family that could rise during crisis?
What one gesture or conversation could bring more peace—before it’s too late?
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