DOCTORS ORDERS [BLOG]

When You Become the Parent of Your Parent

About the author

Abby is a Registered Psychotherapist (Qualifying) with the College of Registered Psychotherapists of Ontario and the founder of It's Not Wednesday, a virtual practice working with adults across British Columbia, Ontario, Manitoba, and Saskatchewan. She holds a Master of Counselling Psychology from the University of Saskatchewan and works primarily with grief, caregiving, and the losses that don't come with sympathy cards.

SEPT 30 2026

Why "Role Reversal" Is the Wrong Phrase

The term makes it sound like a swap. You were the child, now you're the parent, and everyone trades places. That isn't what happens. Parenting a child is bearable because of what's coming. There's growth, there's a future, there's the experience of watching someone become more themselves over time. You're building toward something. This runs the other direction. You take on the work of parenting and get none of what makes parenting survivable. The person doesn't grow. There's no future version to look forward to. You watch someone become less themselves, slowly, while doing everything a parent does. So it isn't role reversal. It's role loss. You didn't gain a child. You lost the person whose job it was to worry about you — and then inherited their care as well.

Anger, and the Guilt That Follows

Your mother ran a business. She read three books a month. She had opinions about politics and could argue them properly. Now she goes to a day program where they colour, sing songs, and do crafts. Watching that produces a feeling that isn't quite sadness. It's closer to ugh — something physical, in the chest, arriving before any thought about it. You're watching a chaotic, dull version of someone you knew well, and you're not supposed to say that out loud, because it sounds cruel and because they can't help it. Which is where the anger starts. This is the part people bring up last, usually months in, usually with a long preamble about being a bad person. The behaviours are frustrating. The repeated questions, the fixations, the anxiety, the rumination. You know — genuinely know — that they have little or no control over any of it. And you get annoyed anyway. More than that: you revert too. You find yourself responding the way you did at sixteen. Short. Impatient. That particular teenage register you thought you'd outgrown, coming back out of your mouth in your thirties, aimed at a person with a neurodegenerative disease. Then the guilt, which is usually worse than the anger was. Here's what's true: you are not going to be a saint in this. Nobody is. Getting frustrated with someone who is unwell is a human response to a relentless situation, not evidence of a character problem. The guilt you feel about it is a sign you're paying attention, not a sign you've failed.

What You're Actually Hoping For

Ask most people in this what they want and it isn't a cure. It's smaller than that. It's the hope that some essence of the person is still in there. That the imprint of who they were hasn't gone, even when the conversation has. Which is why so much of the meaningful time isn't conversation at all. It's lying on the bed with the TV on. Sitting in the same room. Being near them without needing anything from it. There's something real underneath that instinct. The way we know the people closest to us is largely implicit — stored as procedural memory rather than as a story we can retrieve. You don't remember learning how to be around your mother. You just know. And that kind of knowing tends to outlast the explicit kind, on both sides. Presence without performance is often the last thing left, and it isn't a consolation prize.

What Therapy Can and Can't Do Here

It's worth being honest about the limits. A clinician cannot solve this. The problem underneath it is structural — not enough long-term care beds, not enough home support workers, not enough community programs, and a generation arriving at this stage all at once. Caregiver support groups are full of people at the absolute end of their capacity, and the reason isn't individual coping. It's that the system is under-resourced and families are absorbing the difference. What therapy can do is still worth having.

Somewhere to say the whole thing. Most caregivers are managing what they tell people. In session, nothing needs managing. The anger, the wish for it to be over, the relief when a visit gets cancelled — all of it can be said out loud without costing you anything.

Normalizing the human response. You will not respond the way you want to every time. Naming that as ordinary rather than shameful does more than most advice does, because the shame is usually heavier than the behaviour it's attached to.

Working with protective factors. How this lands depends heavily on what you brought into it — the quality of the relationship before, whether you have siblings, your support network, your age. Someone caring for a parent who hurt them is doing a fundamentally different job than someone caring for a parent they were close to. There's no general version of this. There's only your version.

Boundaries and burnout, treated as ongoing. Not a one-time conversation about saying no. A continuing practice of noticing where your capacity actually is, which changes week to week and rarely matches what's being asked.

Permission to not have it together. Being seen and heard while you're in it is the most therapy can offer. That isn't a fix. It also isn't nothing.

Is It Normal to Feel Angry at a Parent With Dementia?

Yes, and it's close to universal among people doing this work daily. Anger in caregiving usually isn't anger at the person. It's the accumulated residue of a situation with no end date, no days off, and no visible progress — pointed at whoever is in the room. The guilt that follows is worth paying attention to, but not as evidence against you. Caregivers who feel guilty about their frustration are generally the ones doing the most careful work. People who feel nothing are the ones I'd worry about.

Why Is Caring for a Parent With Dementia So Isolating?

Because almost nothing about it is visible to other people. There's no treatment schedule to explain. Your parent presents well to visitors. The losses are individually too small to report. And if you're doing this before your fifties, there's no one in your immediate circle doing the same thing. The result is a full-time experience that nobody around you can see the shape of — which is a different kind of loneliness than simply being alone.

Am I Grieving Someone Who Is Still Alive?

Yes. The term for it is ambiguous loss, named by researcher Pauline Boss: grief without a body, without a date, and without any of the rituals that normally mark a death. You're grieving the person they were, the relationship you had, and the one you expected to have later. None of those losses come with acknowledgement, which is why the grief so often gets carried privately and without language. If you're caring for a parent who is still here and grieving them anyway, that's not confusion. That's an accurate response to an impossible situation, and it's the kind of thing therapy can hold.

It Doesn't Announce Itself

There isn't a day this starts. No appointment where someone tells you the relationship has changed and here is your new role in it. It arrives in fragments. A bill that didn't get paid. The third time this week they've asked the same question. A conversation where you realize partway through that you're managing them, and that you've been doing it for a while. What makes this disorienting isn't the work. It's that the behaviours stop matching the person. Your father does something your father wouldn't do. Your mother says something your mother wouldn't say. And you're standing there trying to hold two versions of someone at once — the one in front of you and the one who raised you.The relationship starts to fragment. Not break. Fragment, in small pieces, over a long time.

What Nobody Sees

This is an invisible illness, and that shapes everything about how it's experienced. There's no hospital. No treatment schedule. No visible break. Nobody brings a casserole for cognitive decline the way they do for a cancer diagnosis, because nothing about it announces itself from the outside. And your parent will often perform well. They hold it together for visitors, for friends, for the relatives who come twice a year, and those people leave thinking it isn't so bad. You're the only one in the room when the performance ends. So when someone asks how your dad is doing, you have nothing to say that sounds serious. He's forgetting things. He's anxious. He's sleeping more. Each piece sounds small. None of them land. That's the particular cruelty of neurodegenerative illness — it takes someone by increments. Death by a thousand cuts, every day. Another tiny loss, too small to report and too constant to absorb.

When It Happens Too Early

There's a version of this that gets very little attention: the person doing it in their twenties, thirties, or forties. Caregiving for a parent isn't a social norm at that age. Your friends are dating, building careers, having babies, moving cities. You're managing medication schedules and wondering whether the stove got left on. There is no group of people around you doing the same thing at the same time, which means there's nobody to compare notes with and nobody who understands why you can't come. It also lands on top of everything else. You're building your own identity, in a new relationship, figuring out work, maybe with a young family of your own. The caregiving doesn't wait for a gap. It arrives during the busiest construction phase of your adult life and asks for the same resources. Researchers call this off-time caregiving — a role that arrives outside the life stage where it's socially expected. Off-time transitions are consistently harder, not because the work is heavier, but because there's no script and no peer group. And underneath it is a grief people rarely name: the adult relationship you were supposed to get. If you're lucky, your parents become something like friends in your thirties. You go through parallel transitions. You get to know them as people rather than as parents. That was coming, and now it isn't. You're grieving a relationship that never had a chance to exist.