The Reality of Distance

Sometimes, this decline does not happen slowly. I migrated in 2022 at the age of 27, and two years later, my family revealed that my father had terminal cancer. I came back for the summer to spend time with him — accompanying him to doctor's appointments and exercises, making fresh juices, even watching our favorite movies together, and just talking. I understood it might be our last time together. However, I had to go back to Serbia back then to finalize essential paperwork and return to my own family. It was an awful choice to make, but the anticipation of the end could have lasted months. I decided to visit my parents on New Year’s Eve, but I was late. Dad passed away a week before my flight. Because of the physical distance, I could not say goodbye.

Decisions like this — choosing between staying by your parent's side and going back to your life in another country — are very hard. Even though I constantly called, made sure they had funds and information, and we had support from relatives, the guilt in this scenario is inevitable. The looping thoughts always follow: I should have called more often. Maybe I should have stayed longer?

No, I could not. However, accepting my own powerlessness and my migrant status didn't happen overnight. It took me at least six months just to allow myself to start letting go of the situation. An important insight from this period is that you cannot force this process. Trying to do so will only increase the tension. I had to understand that I have a responsibility to keep living and building my life, even when things are difficult back home.

The Illusion of Control

Of course, I knew my parents were getting older. It was no surprise. I saw the changes over the years, and on a rational level, I adapted to their slower pace. I really thought I was mentally prepared for it. Yet, every time I visit, the contrast is so noticeable that it breaks that illusion.

Sometimes my initial reaction was to fight it. I wanted to optimize the process: buy better shoes, the most expensive vitamins, plan trips. I was implicitly demanding: "Please, do this and that, just don't be… old." Psychologically, this is a classic manifestation of anticipatory grief — mourning the loss of a parent's previous capabilities before they are actually gone. We try to regain control over an uncontrollable biological process.

My mother is alone now, she is 65. I am really trying to hold back my impulses to change things and fight her aging. Instead, I ask what she actually wants and how I can make her life easier. It is important to me to act based on providing real help, not just reacting to my own emotions.

For us, caring from abroad eventually came down to management and gathering information — and this is a resource no less valuable than physical presence. I reframed my approach: if I can't be there in person, I can organize the environment. For example, I found a Polish language tutor for my mom and signed her up for group workouts at a gym near her house. This helps her maintain social connections and cognitive activity. Furthermore, I created my own "safety net". I keep in touch with her neighbors and know that, in an emergency, I can always call them and ask to check if everything is okay.

Guilt

This brings us to the third pillar of our migrant journey. No matter how much practical help I organize, there is always an extra layer of guilt mixed in simply because I am not physically next to my mum.

When this gets heavy, here is what helps me manage it:

1. The hierarchy remains: she is my mother, and I am her daughter. I cannot adopt a parental role over her life.
2. The priority shifts: my primary responsibility is building my future and taking care of my own family in my new country.
3. Trust as a form of care: I help in many practical ways, but I must trust her autonomy. I have to trust that she can manage her daily life and still find happiness without my constant physical intervention.

Setting these boundaries does not mean I care less. It simply means I am learning to care in a way that is sustainable for both of us, across the distance.

As you can see, this experience has multiple layers. Everything powerful becomes powerless sooner or later. We need to acknowledge this reality, establish practical frameworks to care for our parents from a distance, but above all, we must preserve ourselves.

More on this topic

If this topic resonates with you, International House Leuven regularly hosts Mental Health Meetups that explore themes relevant to international life. You can also read more on this topic in this IHL article: Holding Two Worlds: Living Abroad While Parents Grow Older.