Late last night, my grandma passed away at 98 years old. There’s a strange quiet that follows news like that. A mix of gratitude for a long life, sadness for what’s ended, and reflection on what the final chapters looked like. I’ll share more personal memories in time, but for now, this feels like the piece that needs to be written. I want to talk about the importance of maintaining mobility and independence as we age.
The Last Years: Aging, Mobility, and Quality of Life
The final just under two years of my grandma’s life were spent in a long-term care home.
For most of that time, there was still lightness. She socialized. She recognized familiar faces. She had routines, conversations, and moments that still felt like her. There was structure, but there was also dignity.
What makes this harder is knowing who she once was.
She used to tell me stories about winning medals in sprinting. About how much she loved playing basketball — travelling with her church team, competing, moving, belonging to her body. These weren’t said with sadness. They were shared with pride, like movement was simply part of who she was.
And somewhere along the way, that part of her life ended.
Not abruptly. Not with a single moment you can point to. Just slowly.
The last six months were different.
Her mind began to slip. Her mobility declined. Every visit became heavier than the last — not because she wasn’t loved, but because we could see how hard it was for her just to exist in her body. Simple tasks required help. Familiar things felt unfamiliar. The woman we knew was still there, but further away each time.
Watching that change is something that stays with you.
The Question That Lingers: What Does Aging Well Really Mean?
As a family, it made us ask a question we don’t often say out loud:
Is this how we want the last years of our lives to look?
Not the age — 98 is a gift. But the quality of those final years.
Needing constant service and care just to get through the day. Losing independence before losing life. Spending the last year of your life looking nothing like the five before it.
That’s the part that sits heavy.
Looking Up the Family Tree: Caring for Aging Parents Before It’s Too Late
That question — when did movement stop being part of her life? — doesn’t stay in the past.
It follows you forward.
At 26 years old, with both of my parents in their 60s, I can’t help but connect the dots. I look at them and wonder when the quiet slide might begin if nothing interrupts it. When strength becomes something you used to have. When balance, confidence, and independence slowly shrink without anyone noticing.
I think about their health. Their mobility. Their strength. Their balance. Their independence.
I think about how quickly “later” becomes “now.”
And I think about how none of this starts in old age — it starts in the years we assume we still have plenty of time.
The Uncomfortable Truth: Maintaining Mobility and Independence as We Age
If we want the last year of our lives to look like the last five, the work doesn’t start in our 80s.
It starts decades earlier.
It starts with staying mobile.
It starts with maintaining strength.
It starts with protecting balance, bone density, cardiovascular health, and confidence in your body.
And here’s the hard part — parents are stubborn.
They’re tough.
They’re independent.
And they often don’t want advice from their kids.
Love Sometimes Looks Like a Push: Encouraging Parents to Stay Active
But this is the season where we push anyway.
Not out of criticism.
Not out of fear.
But out of love.
Love that says:
I want you traveling, walking, laughing, and living — not just surviving.
Love that understands movement isn’t about aesthetics or performance.
It’s about dignity.
It’s about choice.
It’s about being able to live fully for as long as possible.
A Quiet Promise: Choosing Movement for Long-Term Health
My grandma lived a long life. For that, I’m grateful.
Her final years, though, left an imprint — not just of loss, but of clarity.
A reminder that longevity without quality isn’t the goal.
A reminder that the conversations we avoid are often the ones that matter most.
And a quiet promise to the people I love:
We start sooner.
We stay moving.
We protect our future selves — together.
I’ll share more personal reflections soon. For now, this is the piece that needed space.
Written by Chelsey Torrance
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