Someone Pass the Mayo: Life in the Sandwich Generation

The ground is covered with a light frost. It’s mid-October on the East Coast of Canada, and I’m sipping my coffee in the dark, trying to figure out my next move. The world is still asleep, the kettle’s just whistled for the second time and I’m sitting here somewhere between grateful and emotionally wrung out.

On paper, I should be thriving. My business is bubbling with new ideas, clients, and all the juicy, soul-work things I love. But underneath it all, I’m sitting on a precipice, pulled between two worlds, two responsibilities, two homes.

They call it the sandwich generation. Cute name, right? Except the bread’s getting soggy, and I’m the piece of lettuce stuck in the middle, trying not to wilt.

The Frost Between Here and There

If I stay here, I miss my children, my grandchild, my family, friends, my whole rhythm. Did I mention that I live on the West Coast? So far. Sometimes I wish I could just close my eyes, click my heels, and teleport back and forth between both lives like some kind of quantum caregiving ninja.

If I go back, I miss moments I can never get back with my parent. The one who insists they’re fine but forgets to eat lunch, refuses help, and thinks turning a light on in the daytime whether it is dark or not is a sign of weakness.

They’re old-school through and through: generous, proud, and stubborn enough to wrestle a moose if it meant avoiding home care. And let’s not forget the collections. Six boxes of used bathroom faucets (because you never know when you’ll need a replacement part) and an entire drawer of used batteries that “might have a bit of life left.” They grew up during the Depression, so you simply do not throw things out. Ever.

There’s the cooking and cleaning, organizing the chaos, trying to make life a little easier and then there’s the admin side of caregiving: taxes, bill payments, doctor’s appointments (who am I kidding? Let’s be honest, the only way we would get him to a doctor is by ambulance. Not funny and not looking forward to it), and whatever new form the government decides to create just to test your patience.

And if I leave, the onus falls on my only sibling who already works full-time and lives about 30 minutes away. That’s an extra hour of driving on top of the visit, the errands, and the things. The invisible mental load that stacks higher than the faucet boxes in the basement.

Meanwhile, I’m 5,477 kilometres away, give or take a snowstorm, which makes “popping by” for a quick visit slightly out of the question. Sometimes I wish I could just close my eyes and teleport, skip the airports and the guilt, and just be where I’m needed. But that’s not how life works, is it?

And yet… as much as I long for home, I love the East Coast deeply. It’s in my bones, the ocean, the salt air, the slower pace, the people who still wave when you drive by. But this time, it’s different. This isn’t just a visit. It’s caretaking. It’s responsibility. It’s love with a side of worry.

It’s not that they aren’t loved or supported, far from it. It’s just that this stage of life comes with invisible weight. You don’t realize how heavy it is until you’re standing in two places at once.

When you’re the one nearby, you carry the list. The worry list, the “did they eat?” list, the “where did they put the phone again?” list. And when you’re away, you carry the guilt list, every unchecked box screaming you should be there.

The Middle of the Sandwich Is Where the Pressure Builds

People like us, the mid-lifers, the caregivers, the empaths, we don’t talk about it enough. The emotional gymnastics of wanting to show up for everyone while still holding a tiny shred of your own identity.

One side is your kids, who you want to visit but don’t want to guilt-trip. The other side is your parent, who won’t accept help because “no one needs to fuss.” Somewhere in there you’re trying to run a business, find your center, and remember where you left your coffee (hint: it’s in the microwave, reheating for the third time).

And let’s not even start on the existential tug-of-war: “Am I doing enough? Am I selfish for wanting to go home? Am I a bad daughter or sister if I leave?” It’s a full-time job managing the guilt alone.

What No One Tells You About the Sandwich Generation

No one tells you that love can feel like both a warm blanket and a chokehold. That sometimes you cry in the car because the freedom to choose feels like punishment. That being the “strong one” doesn’t mean you don’t crumble, it just means you do it quietly between errands.

We talk a lot about self-care, but this is a different kind of care. The kind that requires boundaries and compassion. The kind that whispers, “You can’t pour from an empty cup,” while your brain replies, “Yeah, but I can pour from a cracked one if I tilt it just right.”

Some days I think about how wild it is that this is part of the human experience, watching our parents age as our children grow, feeling the past and the future pulling at us like tides. The in-between can feel lonely. But it can also be sacred.

The Beauty in the Mess

Because here’s the thing: even in the chaos, there’s beauty. There’s the quiet grace of morning coffee before the world wakes. There’s the laughter when you catch your parent doing something absurd (like carefully labelling a box of “used batteries, might still work” and saving yet another tin pie plate to add to the surreal pile because it might come in handy). There’s the gratitude that, for now, you can be here.

And there’s the reminder that you matter too. You’re not just the glue, you’re part of the mosaic.

So to anyone else in this mid-life sandwich, feeling the crunch, the guilt, the love, and the chaos, I see you. You’re not failing. You’re doing the impossible with a side of grace (and caffeine and perhaps a double shot of whiskey or two).

Sometimes I think being human is just one long lesson in letting go: of control, of expectations, of how we thought things would look. It’s messy and heartbreaking and beautiful. And it’s okay to say all of that out loud.

Closing the Kitchen Table Chat

As I finish my now-cold coffee, I remind myself: this stage isn’t forever. None of it is. The frost melts, the seasons shift, and somehow, so do we.

Maybe the lesson in all of this is that love looks different at every age. Sometimes it’s driving three hours for a visit. Sometimes it’s holding space while someone else learns to accept help. And sometimes it’s simply whispering to yourself, You’re doing the best you can, darling.

Because you are. And if no one’s told you lately, that’s enough.

With tears of gratitude, nostalgia and pent-up frustration and hope.

Denise