I grew up in a multigenerational household, my extended family just blocks away. It was a village, and in that village, caregiving was as natural as breathing. Together we carried each other through milestones, laughter, illness and loss.
As a child, I learned early on what it meant to show up for someone. I remember keeping my uncle company, coaxing him to eat because, for me, he would. At age 5 I didn’t know he had terminal cancer. Even if I had, I don’t think I would have understood what it meant. All I knew was that he needed me.
I remember my grandmother’s decline, how her bedroom shifted from a place of comfort into one filled with the hum of medical equipment and the quiet presence of a hospital bed. She was the reason I first wanted to become a nurse. When an uncle needed injections or my aunt needed wound care, I was there, just as the rest of our village was. Caregiving wasn’t extraordinary. It was part of the rhythm of our lives. It was how love was expressed. It was our cultural inheritance.
But over time, our village grew smaller. People moved away for work, for opportunities, for new beginnings. Isn’t that what people do? You grow up, you build your own life and one day, often unexpectedly, you’re standing where your parents once stood. YOU are the caregiver. Maybe it starts with little things, a ride to the doctor, a meal drop off. Or it may come all at once, like a storm. Either way, even if you carry the instincts, nothing prepares you for becoming a caregiver without a village.
‘Caregiving without a village stretches you in ways that are both beautiful and brutal.’
For many of us in the millennial generation, that moment arrives in a uniquely complex world. We are the generation who grew up with the language of “it takes a village” and the lived memory of what that meant. We were raised in neighborhoods where grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins were never far away. Neighbors looked after neighbors. But our adulthood has unfolded in a landscape shaped by mobility, rising costs, demanding jobs and fragmented community networks. We straddle two eras: one of proximity and shared care, and another defined by distance and individual responsibility.
Caregiving without a village stretches you in ways that are both beautiful and brutal. There is exhaustion, late nights, endless appointments, the juggling of responsibilities, the constant worry that you are not doing enough. That you are not enough. For millennials, this weight often lands in the middle of everything else: careers that don’t pause, student loans that keep coming due, and children who still need bedtime stories. We are often caregivers in the middle—the bridge generation—supporting parents and children at the same time.
But alongside the weariness, there also is a profound intimacy. You see your parent not just as the figure who raised you, but as a person, now fragile, maybe scared, but also brave, needing your hands the way you once needed theirs. In that reversal of roles, there is tenderness, grief and a kind of love that words can never fully capture.
I have learned that caregiving is more than tasks on a seemingly endless to-do list. It is presence. It is showing up even when you are tired, even when you don’t have all the answers, even when your heart is breaking.
I am grateful that my work at ASA gives me the space and understanding to do that. My colleagues and leadership have become part of my modern village. Offering flexibility, encouragement, and empathy that make it possible to care for my family while continuing to do the work that makes me feel like I am having an impact. It is showing up after a long workday, across time zones, through text messages and video calls, cobbling together care in ways that look very different from what we knew growing up.
I have learned, too, that no one can do this alone. The village I once knew that was anchored in kinship, proximity, and shared responsibility no longer exists. But I’ve also learned that a village can be rebuilt. It can look different. It can be friends who check in, nurses, social workers, church communities and sometimes even strangers who show up at just the right moment.
‘Every act of care I offer my parent is rooted in the lessons I inherited: that love is responsibility, that presence matters, that we are strongest when we carry one another.’
For our generation, the “village” isn’t defined by geography anymore; it’s defined by intentionality. Not by bloodlines, but by choice. We build it piece by piece, often from scratch, because we know we cannot carry this alone.
And perhaps the most important lesson of all: asking for help is not weakness. It is wisdom. Vulnerability, I’ve learned, is a kind of strength. It creates space for others to step in, not just to ease the load, but to share in the love and the humanity that caregiving holds. For millennials, unlearning the myth of “doing it all” is part of the work. We are learning to lean into community again, even if it doesn’t look like the one we grew up with.
When I think back to my childhood, I can still see our village gathered around kitchen tables, in living rooms, in hospital rooms, holding one another through every season of life. That circle is smaller now, but its spirit lives on in me. Every act of care I offer my parent is rooted in the lessons I inherited: that love is responsibility, that presence matters, that we are strongest when we carry one another.
Caregiving without a village is daunting, but it has also taught me that new villages can be built from the ground up, through gestures big and small. A village can be a neighbor who drops off crossword puzzles for your mom, a friend who answers the late-night call, a group chat that becomes a lifeline. It may not look like the village of my childhood, but it is still connection. It is still support. It is still love.
In the end, caregiving isn’t about perfection. It’s about showing up, again and again, with whatever you have to give. It’s about honoring those who once cared for us and choosing to extend that same care outward, into our families, our communities, and our world.
I may not have the same village I grew up with, but I carry its wisdom within me. And with every act of caregiving, I am not only honoring the past but also helping to rebuild the future, one rooted in compassion, resilience, and the radical belief that none of us were ever meant to do this alone.
Victoria Ruiz is ASA’s Senior On Aging Institute Manager.
Photo credit: Shutterstock/Marcos Castillo
