“Here, sit here on the chair! Want some water? Do you need anything? Oh—and speak more quietly, you’re not at home!” said a woman at a salon to her mother, whom she had brought in for a beauty treatment.
Her mother looked great—vibrant, with an admirable energy.
“I keep telling her she should take better care of herself. It annoys me when she lets herself go at home!” the same woman went on, speaking to the stylist working on her mother’s hair. The stylist tried to ease the tension, saying that we’re all a bit more relaxed when we’re home—it’s the place where we allow ourselves to be.
But when exactly do we begin treating our parents like clueless children, as if they lacked any experience?
And sometimes not just our parents—but also older colleagues—talking to them like they’re somehow mentally lacking.
At what point does this shift happen, where we appoint ourselves as the wiser ones, the overly protective ones, the holders of all insight?
Maybe the other person simply needs some attention.
Maybe loneliness, after a certain age, makes you talk more whenever someone’s around.
Maybe some people do get stuck in a point of view—but don’t we all do that sometimes? Don’t we all repeat stories we’ve told before?
Let’s not forget: many of us will likely live to reach an older age ourselves.
So here’s an experiment I suggest: try looking at older people as if you were peeking into your own future through a keyhole—witnessing possible versions of your own being:
Sometimes you’ll forget, repeat yourself, become a little fussy or grumble about joint pain, put off dyeing your hair—or just decide not to anymore, because life simply isn’t about those things anymore.
Maybe this kind of perspective shift would help us treat others differently—more humanely, more gently, more equally, with more attentiveness, more care.
And if I dare use bigger words—perhaps even with compassion, respect, and love.