8 things people over 60 lie about when their kids ask how they're doing

"I'm fine, sweetheart. Everything's good."

My voice is steady on the Sunday evening call with my daughter, even as I shift position to ease the chronic hip pain that kept me awake until 3 AM.

After decades of motherhood, I've perfected the art of protective dishonesty, such as the careful omissions and gentle untruths that shield our children from worries they can't fix anyway.

1) Their physical pain levels

"The knees are much better," I tell my son, not mentioning that the arthritis in my hands made opening my morning tea jar a ten-minute ordeal.

I've learned to time my pain medication for an hour before our calls, ensuring my voice won't betray the constant negotiation with my body.

Have you noticed how we develop this complex vocabulary of deflection?

"A little stiff" means unable to garden for three days.

"Taking it easy" means the pain was bad enough to cancel volunteer shifts.

"Good days and bad days" means the bad days are winning.

We don't want our children picturing us struggling.

They have enough stress with their jobs and kids.

Besides, what can they do from three states away? Send worried texts that make us both feel helpless?

2) How much they actually sleep

I haven't slept through the night in years.

My body maintains its vigilance from when I needed to wake at every sound during my husband's illness.

Now I'm usually awake by 3 AM, reading in the dark or writing in my journal, but I tell my children I "slept like a baby."

They would insist on expensive sleep studies or worry I need anxiety medication.

The truth is, I've made peace with my 3 AM thoughts.

Sometimes that's when I feel closest to their father, remembering our conversations.

My insomnia is just how I live now.

I've discovered that evening walks help, that screens make it worse, and that sometimes accepting sleeplessness is more restful than fighting it.

3) Their financial concerns

The retirement income that seemed adequate five years ago now barely covers expenses.

I sold my car last year, telling my children I "didn't need it anymore" rather than admitting the insurance and maintenance had become unsustainable.

I shop sales obsessively, have given up beloved subscriptions, and practice small economies invisible during video calls.

"Your father was very careful with our planning," I insist when offered help with bills.

I don't mention that careful planning couldn't anticipate years of medical care costs, or that savings are one major repair away from crisis.

I've learned to say "I'm trying to simplify" instead of "I can't afford it," transforming financial necessity into lifestyle choice.

4) The depth of their loneliness

My calendar looks full with coffee dates and book clubs.

What I don't share is the crushing loneliness of Tuesday afternoons when the house feels too big, or Saturday nights when everyone assumes I have plans.

I've learned that saying "I'm keeping busy" prevents the awkward pause where children feel guilty for living their lives.

Loneliness at this age is about being the only one who remembers.

No one else knows how their father took his coffee, or why I can't throw away his reading glasses, or what he said the morning before his last hospital visit.

I'm the sole keeper of a thousand small intimacies, and that weight isn't something my children can lift.

5) Their fears about cognitive changes

Last week, I spent twenty minutes looking for glasses that were on my head.

Yesterday, I called my grandson by my son's name three times.

I've started writing everything down; reminders to turn off the stove, people's names before they visit, and the plot of the book I'm reading.

My children see the lists as "being organized."

Every time I forget something, I wonder if this is how it starts.

However, if I told my children, every forgotten detail would become a symptom, every repeated story a sign.

They'd watch me fade before I actually do.

So, I do crosswords religiously, read voraciously, and keep learning; building cognitive reserves against an enemy that might never come.

6) How often they feel like a burden

"No trouble at all," I say when my daughter rearranges her schedule to drive me to appointments.

I time my grocery trips for when neighbors are going anyway, pretend my requests for help are casual thoughts rather than carefully rehearsed necessities, and have learned to accept assistance with gratitude that masks my shame.

I used to be the one helping: Raising children, working full-time, and caring for aging parents.

Now, I need help carrying groceries upstairs.

The reversal is unbearable sometimes.

I've developed elaborate systems to maintain independence: Online services I struggle to understand, delivery options I can barely afford, tools for reaching high shelves rather than asking for help.

7) Their struggles with technology

"Oh, I figured it out," I chirp when asked about the video calling app my grandson installed.

I don't mention the three hours spent trying to unmute myself, or that I accidentally deleted my entire contact list trying to add a photo.

I keep handwritten instructions for every digital task, have passwords written in a notebook I hide, and sometimes just give up rather than admit defeat.

They think I'm doing fine with technology because I text and use email.

They don't know I've been locked out of online banking for months because I'm afraid of clicking the wrong thing, but admitting this would mean more tutorials I won't remember, more frustration on both sides.

8) How much they think about death

I've planned everything—the songs for my service, the distribution of family heirlooms, letters for milestone birthdays—and I've made peace with mortality in a way my children aren't ready to hear.

When they make plans for next Christmas or talk about future graduations, I smile and agree while privately wondering if I'll be there.

Recently, I've been reading Rudá Iandê's new book, Laughing in the Face of Chaos: A Politically Incorrect Shamanic Guide for Modern Life, and his insights have helped me understand these protective lies differently.

As 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."

The book inspired me to see that my gentle deceptions are choices about which truths serve love and which ones serve only worry.

Sometimes, protecting our children from the full weight of our struggles is its own form of honesty about what matters most.

Final thoughts

These lies are acts of love, gifts of peace to children who have their own battles to fight.

Motherhood transforms into this: Protecting them from worries they can't fix, carrying burdens they don't need to know about, and loving them enough to let them believe you're fine.

My lies are my final act of mothering, shielding them from truths that would only bring pain without purpose.