Between me and my parents, there’s a quiet space I chose to stay in.
Bronnie Ware, an Australian palliative care nurse, spent years listening to people nearing death. In her book The Top Five Regrets of the Dying, she shared what she heard most often:
1. I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself.
2. I wish I hadn’t worked so hard.
3. I wish I’d had the courage to express my feelings.
4. I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.
5. I wish I had let myself be happier.
She said, “I wish I hadn’t worked so hard” was the regret shared by every male patient she cared for. In that generation, most men were the breadwinners, and they missed their children’s youth and their partner’s companionship.
It seems that what people regret most are the relationships they had, with others, and with themselves.
Before I quit the engineering career I’d spent 15 years building, I started wondering: what would my regret be?
I’m part of a growing cohort of women who may age without a partner or children. As an immigrant who moved across four cities in three countries over 20 years, friendships, communities, even relationships — they came and went.
The only constant? Family.
I wasn’t close to mine, and staying connected wasn’t easy while living overseas. There was a tightness between us: something unsaid, but always there. It was awkward. And for years, I was too afraid to ask.
The best my dad could do during COVID was a message: a photo of his breakfast (always a smoothie, fruit, and a piece of tofu with an egg), plus a screenshot of his step count (always over 10,000). He sent it every weekday at 9 a.m., Taipei time. That was our thread.
Thinking about that — the quiet, imperfect thread — I started to wonder if it was possible to grow something more, before it’s too late.
So I made a choice.
I moved back. I decided to prioritise my parents, even though I didn’t know how it would go. I started asking: what’s the cost of waiting until later? What if later never comes?
Coming back after 20 years hasn’t been easy. I’m a different person. The differences between me and my parents only grew. And I’ve had to face things I once ran from.
Many times in the past six months, I’ve wanted to run again.
But I stay, because I’m curious if there’s a better way.
For years, I told myself we just weren’t that kind of family: the kind you see in movies. But now I wonder if that story was just unfinished.
And that pain? It’s become the source of some of my deepest growth in midlife.
I’m still learning what it means to stay, to repair, to grow roots again.
Curious, have you ever tried to rewrite a story you thought was already over?
