At the Threshold

It was early morning, about a year ago.

I was visiting my parents in France.
The house was still quiet.
My mother was asleep upstairs.
And my dad and I were downstairs, sharing one of those rare moments alone that only ever seem to happen by accident. 

I don’t remember exactly how I asked.
I just remember the slight shift in his voice when he turned to me and said,

“Yes… it’s starting to get really difficult now.”

There was no drama in his tone.
No panic. Just a simple truth, spoken quietly.

And I knew exactly what he meant.

By then, I’d already been visiting a lot more often.
Doing what many of us do when our parents start to need us more.
Flying in. Staying a few days. Bringing lightness and joy. Trying to understand what was really going on. Then leaving again.

But that morning, something landed differently.

Because I’d done the maths.

We leave home for a reason.
And after four, or in my case exactly five days back with my parents, it’s not just me who subtly regresses to being twelve.
I can feel that they take strain too.

The roles blur.
Edges feel sharper.
Fatigue sets in.
Everyone loses a little of themselves.

So that same afternoon, I reached out to a real estate agent.
A family friend.
And I said I wanted to find something nearby. Within walking distance.

Close enough to be present.
Far enough to remain myself.

That moment marked the beginning of a decision that would quietly reshape my life over the next twelve months.

And this is where this space begins.

 

I’m writing this now, in January 2026, because this past year has been a threshold.

A year of choosing to show up differently.
A year of navigating midlife, perimenopause and identity shifts I didn’t yet have language for. Still don’t.
A year of supporting my parents while learning how not to disappear inside that role.
A year of listening to a growing call toward France and accepting that my life may unfold between countries rather than settle neatly in one place.

And yes.
A year of reckoning with my mother’s Alzheimer’s.

I noticed small things during COVID.
Moments I brushed aside.
Patterns I didn’t want to name.
Excusing her memory loss as her usual absent-mindedness.

But then the questions came.
The same ones. Again and again.

The lack of responses to my WhatsApps.
The quiet withdrawal from things she once loved.
Less desire to go out. Less interest in dressing up.
A shrinking of her world that I didn’t want to see, until I couldn’t not see it.

I’ve shared a few posts along the way, tentatively at first.
And the responses I received were so loving, so human, that they gave me courage.

Because not telling this story has its own cost.

 

This space is not about diagnosis. Or fixing anything broken. Or judging.
It’s not about answers. God knows, the more I learn, the less I realise I know.
And it’s not about turning my parents into a storyline.

It’s about telling the truth of what it feels like to be here.
To be a daughter.
To be a woman approaching fifty.
To be someone learning, in real time, how memory, identity and presence intertwine.

It’s about creating community.
About being witnessed.
And about letting ourselves be less alone in the middle of complicated, tender seasons.

I want this to be a modern memoir.
Written in real time.
A living record of what it means to walk this path without pretending it’s tidy or heroic.

I’ve already learned that if I wait for clarity, I’ll never write.
So instead, I’m choosing authentic expression.
And I’m inviting you to walk alongside me.

You might be caring for a parent.
You might be navigating midlife in your own way.
You might be standing at the edge of a reinvention you didn’t plan.

Or you might simply recognise yourself in the quiet questions.

Like the one I asked myself most often over the last year.

How do I love and respect my parents, while still loving and respecting myself?

That question is what led me to find my own space.
Even when it meant going against my father’s view that it was unnecessary.
Even when it meant spending money he felt didn’t need to be spent.

What I needed was space.
Space to stay present without disappearing.
Space to care without collapsing back into old roles.
Space to remain myself, while staying close.

What I didn’t anticipate were the quiet gifts that followed.

By creating my own space, something else shifted in our family system.
My brother also chose to come closer.
To be more present.
To begin a new chapter of his life in France.

It wasn’t planned.
It wasn’t coordinated.
And it certainly wasn’t something I could have predicted at the time.

But it reminded me of something I’m still learning.
When one person makes a self-honouring choice, it can open doors for others too.

That story deserves its own telling.
For another time.

If you feel moved to comment, to share your own moments of struggle or grace, you’re welcome here. My only ask is that you engage with grace and compassion.

This is Midlife Memoirs with Coco.
And this is where I begin.