Ten Years Later: From 60 to 70

 

Now, it’s the “Oh $hit, I’m almost 70” phase.

—70. A milestone that once felt impossibly far off is now here, present, lived-in. I still feel young in many ways, but the truth is undeniable: I am in the phase of life where you can’t pretend there’s still plenty of time to get everything in order. The runway is shorter now.

I’ve been reflecting a lot lately. Ten more years of love, worry, planning, fatigue, advocacy, joy, and fear. Ten years watching Lauren grow, shift, surprise me, and need me—still. Ten years of doing my best to hand off pieces of the puzzle, bit by bit, without letting the whole thing fall apart.

And ten more years of quietly, painfully asking myself:

• Is it enough?

• Will it hold when I’m gone?

• Who will catch her if she falls—and will they see her, the whole her?

I’ve lived with these questions longer than I care to admit. I speak to families every week who are just beginning this journey, or who are stuck in that loop: “I know I should plan, but it’s just too hard.” I tell them gently: I get it. I am you. I've done the work, and I still wake up in the night with my stomach in knots.

Because here's the truth: Even when everything looks in place—legal documents, trusts, support teams, communication tools, circles of support—your heart doesn’t get the memo. It still races with the "what ifs."

Watching my mother’s final years unfold—with all the vulnerabilities and dignity of aging—I see more clearly how finite this all is. I know I likely have 15–20 more years to be a voice for Lauren, to reinforce the foundation, to smooth the transitions. But now I also know how quickly that time can slip away.

Here’s what the last decade has taught me:

1. Planning isn’t a one-time act—it’s a living process.

We don’t just write a trust or create a care plan and call it done. We live it. We revisit it. We test it. We make sure that the people around our children can actually follow what we’ve left behind.

2. Teaching Lauren to advocate for herself is still my number one job.

It’s no longer about just saying what she wants, but about others taking her seriously—listening to her preferences, honoring her boundaries, understanding her way of communicating, her humor, her rhythms. That kind of legacy doesn’t come from documents—it comes from building culture.

3. No system will ever be as good as a loving, attuned parent—but we can get close.

I ran my own small supported living agency for Lauren 14 years. One of the changes was to find an agency to take over while I’m still here. I still do the schedule and am highly involved. The staff, the routines, the one-page profiles, the person-centered practices—it works. It’s not perfect, but it’s designed around her, not around convenience or compliance.

4. Aging gracefully requires boundaries and self-care.

I’ve learned—sometimes the hard way—that I cannot do this well if I’m running on empty. I must rest, laugh, move, eat well, take my meds., even an antidepressant when I notice I’m feeling hopeless, and spend time with people who fill my soul. If I’m to be strong for Lauren, I have to protect my own energy like it's sacred. Because it is.

5. Sharing the path helps others find their way.

This blog, my presentations, the stories I share—this is part of the legacy too. So that the next generation of parents knows they’re not alone, not broken, not failing. Just human. Trying. Loving. Hoping. Planning.

 

So, if you’re reading this and feeling overwhelmed—maybe you’re 40, or 60, or 75—here’s what I want you to know:

Start where you are.

Do one thing.

Then another.

Then rest.

Then laugh.

Then try again.

Talk to your child about their wishes. Capture their routines in writing or pictures or voice memos. Build relationships with their support team. Make your health a priority. Go to that estate planning appointment. Write the messy draft of the “When I’m Gone” guide. It doesn’t have to be pretty. It just has to exist.

Leave the trail.

Because one day, someone else will need to find it.

And because—whether we want to admit it or not—we are the bridge between now and what comes after.

Unsure where to start? Have a look at  this list of things to consider. https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1YDsrWgVcYzANtUWOffSk-W24enmbnfuOLG5hu_5AY-o/edit?usp=sharing 

With love and solidarity,

Trudy, nearly age 70, still learning, still worrying, still hoping—and still building the road for Lauren.