Why This Grown Woman Still Needs Her Parents

We don’t have proximity on our side, but we make up for it in belonging.

By

Kimberly Witt

 
Published April 17, 2026
illustration of woman speaking to her mother
Danie Drankwalter

“Where do you get your rye flour?” I recently texted my mom.

We live in different states, but I still needed her baking advice. My husband had been strongly hinting (read: incessantly begging) I should learn how to make my mom’s famous rye bread, and it was time to start. I dusted off my great-grandma's recipe and started the process. Before the day was over and my loaves had baked, I had texted my mom approximately 37 times, asking questions and receiving her encouragement along the way.

I’m 40-something, and I still very much need my parents.

Whether I’m calling my dad to ask him about the funky fungus on my lilac bush or checking in with Mom to see which sugar cookie recipe my grandma used, I’m constantly reaching out to them for advice and support. Our phone calls might sound mundane to an outside listener: who was at their morning coffee, how my sons are doing in classes, when they volunteer next at the hospital, what I’m cooking for dinner. I don’t get to experience their day-to-day lives in person, but connecting over the minutiae makes the miles between us feel fewer.

Growing up mere minutes from my grandparents, I took for granted the round-the-clock connection with extended family. I could drink tea with my beloved great-aunts whenever I wanted, stop in for sugar cookies hidden in Grandma Dorothy’s freezer, or catch an episode of Days of Our Lives with Grandma Bernie. Now I live several hours away from my parents.

We don’t have proximity on our side, but we make up for it in belonging.

A Gift, Not a Given

This sense of belonging is a gift I’ve come to appreciate even more so as I look at the world around me.

Closeness isn’t a given, even in a family relationship. While percentages vary by study, estrangement from parents isn’t uncommon. Several of my close friends have no contact with either one or both of their parents. Whether they’re dealing with neglect experienced as a child or hypercritical behaviors that seeped into adulthood, these friends have chosen to protect themselves from harmful relationships, a difficult and necessary decision.

Thankfully, politics and particulars haven’t driven me away from my parents. While my parents have had reservations about my sometimes unconventional life choices — falling in love with a stranger at a concert, uprooting my family and moving farther away from my childhood home — they have always accepted and supported me. When I married that concert stranger, they welcomed him into the family with their good-natured teasing and accepted his “southern” sensibilities. And when we moved to another state, they traveled the miles to watch their grandsons on the basketball court and soccer pitch.

So while I can’t describe my relationship with my parents as perfect, I know when compared to many others, I’m one of the lucky ones.

The Sandwich Years

But even when the relationships are steady, the season of life we are entering brings a different kind of challenge.

In the last several weeks, I’ve attended memorial services for one friend’s dad and another’s mom. It feels like just yesterday I was showing up with a casserole or flowers when a friend had a baby, and now I’m making soup and expressing sympathy for the loss of a parent. Our sandwich generation walks unsteadily into a new season of caregiving, role reversal and eventual loss.

I forget I’m not a needy teenager anymore. While my role in our relationship has always been one of selfishness — majoring in receiving and minoring in giving —  I’m afraid it’s time to grow up.

Bringing the Bread

That means I’m offering to bring the rye bread to the next gathering, an attempt to take a task off my mom’s plate. It means I’m helping my dad write his life story, which will surely be a gift for all of us. They don’t need my baking or gardening advice, but I can show up for them in different ways.

As a child, I was sure my parents would live forever. Now, I know my time with my parents isn’t infinite. I want to take advantage of each text and silly phone call. I’m not ready to dive into the realm of anticipatory grief, that grief when you know a loss is on the horizon. That’s not helpful during this season when I want to focus on more time together, more presence and intentionality.

So when I notice a strange crack in our boulevard tree, I’ll snap a photo and send it to my dad. “What’s this? Should I be concerned?” I’ll ask. And then I’ll wait for him to reply with his fatherly wisdom and a link to an article he found searching the Internet.

For both of us, it’s nice to be needed.

Do YOU have a close relationship with your parents? Let us know in the comments below.

Kimberly Witt is an Iowa transplant placing roots in St. Paul, Minnesota. Together with her husband of more than 20 years, she is raising two amazing young adult sons born in Ethiopia. An adjunct English professor and freelancewriter, she spends her free time exploring her city and delighting in everyday life. She writes about the messiness of parenting, faith, and middle-agedness.