I didn’t understand my parents until I saw them get older. I regret not doing these 5 things sooner.

When I was younger, I thought I had my parents all figured out. They were the people who worried too much, asked too many questions about my finances, and never quite understood why I left my stable corporate job to pursue writing. It wasn't until I watched my father struggle to button his shirt after his heart attack at 68 that something shifted in me.

Suddenly, those two people who had always seemed invincible became human. Fragile. Limited by time.

I spent years rolling my eyes at their concerns, dismissing their advice, and keeping them at arm's length emotionally. Now, as I watch them navigate their seventies, I see all the opportunities I missed to truly connect with them when they were younger, healthier, and more available.

If you still have your parents around, please don't wait as long as I did. Here are the five things I wish I'd done sooner.

1. Asked about their dreams, not just their advice

For most of my life, my conversations with my parents revolved around practical matters. How was work? Was I saving enough? Did I check the oil in my car?

But I never asked them what they dreamed about when they were my age. What did they want to become before life's responsibilities took over? What adventures did they give up to raise me?

Last year, while helping my mother recover from surgery, I finally asked her what she'd wanted to be before she became an accountant. She paused, smiled softly, and told me she'd wanted to be a marine biologist. She'd grown up landlocked but was fascinated by the ocean.

That single conversation revealed more about my mother than decades of surface-level check-ins ever had. It explained her collection of seashells, her love of documentaries about coral reefs, and why she always insisted on beach vacations when I was young.

Our parents are complete people with rich inner lives, not just the roles they play for us. When we only see them through the lens of "mom" or "dad," we miss out on knowing the full, complex humans they are.

2. Shared my struggles instead of just my successes

Growing up as an only child with high-achieving parents, I felt this invisible pressure to always have it together. When I called home, I shared promotions, achievements, and carefully curated good news. The struggles? The anxiety attacks in my corporate cubicle? The nights I cried from stress? I kept those hidden.

I thought protecting them from my problems was a form of love. What I didn't realize was that it was actually building walls between us.

Recently, I read Rudá Iandê's new book "Laughing in the Face of Chaos: A Politically Incorrect Shamanic Guide for Modern Life", and one passage stopped me cold: "Their happiness is their responsibility, not yours."

This insight inspired me to finally open up to my parents about my mental health struggles. To my surprise, instead of judgment or disappointment, I found understanding. My father shared his own battles with anxiety during his thirties. My mother talked about the depression she faced after losing her parents.

We'd been living parallel experiences, separated by silence and good intentions. Breaking that generational pattern of emotional distance has brought us closer than ever before.

3. Learned their love language earlier

For years, I misread my parents' constant questions about my financial security as criticism or lack of faith in my abilities. Why couldn't they just say "I love you" like other parents seemed to do so easily?

It took serving as my mother's primary caregiver after her surgery to finally understand. Love, for them, was making sure I had health insurance. Love was teaching me to change a tire. Love was worrying about my retirement fund when I was only 25.

They grew up in a generation where financial stability meant survival, where practical care was the highest form of affection. Once I recognized this, everything shifted. Their "nagging" became care. Their questions became connection attempts.

Now when my dad asks if I'm contributing to my 401k, I hear "I love you." When my mom sends articles about home security systems, I recognize it as her way of saying she thinks about me.

Understanding how our parents express love, rather than demanding they express it our way, can transform the entire relationship.

4. Documented their stories while their memories were sharp

Last Thanksgiving, my father couldn't remember the name of his first boss. The man who had mentored him for five years, whose stories I'd heard throughout my childhood, had become "that guy at the bank."

It was a small thing, but it hit me hard. How many stories were already fading? How many details about their childhoods, their parents, their early years together were disappearing?

I started recording our conversations during Sunday dinners. Nothing formal, just my phone placed between us as we talked. My mother shared how she met my father at a terrible party neither wanted to attend. My dad talked about his father's immigration journey, details I'd never heard before.

These recordings have become precious to me. Not just for the stories themselves, but for the pauses, the laughter, the way my mother says my father's name with such tenderness after 45 years of marriage.

Our parents are living libraries. Every story they don't tell is one that disappears forever.

5. Forgave them for being human

This might be the hardest one.

As a teenager and young adult, I held my parents to impossible standards. Every mistake they made, every time they fell short of the parents I thought I deserved, I catalogued it. I carried these grievances like stones in my pocket, weighing me down.

But watching them age, seeing my father's hands shake as he takes his heart medication, noticing my mother move more slowly up the stairs, has given me perspective. They did their best with the tools they had. They loved me imperfectly because they're imperfect humans, just like I am.

In Rudá Iandê's book, he writes, "Being human means inevitably disappointing and hurting others, and the sooner you accept this reality, the easier it becomes to navigate life's challenges."

My parents disappointed me sometimes. They made mistakes. They had their own traumas and limitations that shaped their parenting. But they also showed up, day after day, doing the best they could with what they knew.

Forgiveness isn't saying everything was okay. It's accepting that they're human, releasing the anger, and choosing connection over righteousness.

Final thoughts

Time moves in one direction, and our parents are further along that path than we are. Every day we wait to truly see them, to know them, to connect with them, is a day we can't get back.

I'm not suggesting you need to become best friends with your parents or ignore genuine hurt they may have caused. Some relationships require boundaries, and that's okay.

But if you have parents who are still here, who are still reachable, consider this your gentle nudge. Ask the questions. Share your truth. Learn their language. Document their stories. Offer forgiveness where you can.

The thing about understanding our parents is that the window for it isn't always open. One day, you'll want to ask them something, and they won't be there to answer. One day, you'll finally understand why they did something, but it'll be too late to tell them.

Don't wait until you're sitting in a hospital room or standing at a graveside to wish you'd tried harder to bridge the gap. The conversation you're avoiding, the question you're curious about, the "I love you" you're holding back?

Today might be the perfect day for it.