Names have been changed to protect privacy. The voices and experiences shared here are real, sometimes uplifting and sometimes raw.
In 1996, thirty years ago, Linda Ellis wrote a poem called The Dash. It’s a poem often read at funerals, a reminder It’s not the years on your gravestone that matters most. What matters is the dash. The time, our time, we spend on the planet we call Earth.
Last week, I heard the poem again while attending a funeral to honor my friend’s mother. In the final stretch of her mother’s life, my friend called me to be a sounding board. As I listened I realized I was witnessing what mattered to her as a daughter: not the length of her mother’s life, but how she “lived and loved and how she spent her dash”. And the Daughter’s dash, too.
Both mother and daughter lived a life of a shared responsibility one shaped by love, honesty and what mattered most in the time they had together.
In my work, I often see the beauty of shared responsibility—the tenderness and humanness of our shared reality of aging. I also see older adults disconnecting with intention, downplaying needs and saying they’re fine. They choose silence over asking because they don’t want to be a burden.
Slowly the dash begins to fade and choices seem impossible. For many, the older we get, the more invisible we feel. And for the people who care: those trying to help their parents, friends and neighbors adapt to the realities of aging, a gap of feeling disconnected forms that is silent but weighs heavy.
The poem, and the quiet beauty of hearing it read in a tucked-away East Greenwich church, inspired me to share the words of people from inside that gap. These are voices of people I have been honored to listen to, help, and serve. I share them in the hope that you, and others, might take the small, courageous steps to feel seen as we live our individual and collective dashes.
There are moments I think about when I reflect on the dash later in life. Not the years between two dates, but the adjustments that come with aging, and the courage it takes to keep living fully.
“I’m in my 80s and I’m proud to wear Depends. I have friends who refuse to leave their house because they’re afraid of having an accident. I’m not missing out on fun because I need to wear something that no one can see or needs to know about.”
–Joan, 82
Joan is protecting her dash.
“I map out a route and know where every bathroom is before I go out. I don’t want to be embarrassed by an accident.”
–Robert, 78
Robert has a strategy.
“I kissed my wife at a crosswalk and a young fella yelled out ‘Gross.’ It made us both feel embarrassed about showing our love. But it’s OK for them to do it.”
–Don, 79
Really?
Later in life, even love can feel like it needs permission.
“My mother has dementia and my father ignores it. We want them to live their lives together but now it isn’t safe. He still sings her love songs. He was always happiest when doing what she wanted, now he’s trying to figure it out, and his health is declining too.”
–Jim and Doreen, married 62 years.
The family has been there day by day. Now the weight of care is growing and they are beginning to plan together.
“My dad can be a husband again and I can be a daughter.”
–Sandy, 60
On seeing her parents adapting to the next chapter in assisted living.
One day I was handed a slip of paper that filled the page with the same sentence, written over and over again.
“Please God, help me, I am so lonely.”
–Liz, 88
A simple cry to be seen. One she couldn’t express out loud.
“The kids on my street always park in my space in front of my house. I can’t kick them out—it’s a free country—but I don’t go out as much as I used to, especially in the summer.”
–Bob, 90
Sometimes the dash narrows not because of health, but because the world stops making room.
“Mom you smell, the house is a mess and it’s hard to come here when you won’t take help.”
–Roberta, 55.
In this moment, it wasn’t shame replacing support. Help has been refused all along, until it became unavoidable.
And sometimes the dash can expand again.
“I didn’t want to live my life alone surrounded by things without people. I made the decision to move closer to my family to an assisted living place and they were thrilled. It was the best move I ever made.”
–Rose, 92
But dignity can be fragile.
“They opened the door and gave me my pills while I was on the toilet. It made me feel worthless.”
–Alice, 89
Being seen is a part of care.
There are small steps, sometimes so small they’re barely noticeable that can make our shared responsibility as humans a little easier to carry.
There is no single plan for connection. Words matter. Silence speaks. We all need to feel seen.
As Linda Ellis wrote, “what matters is how we live and love and how we spend our dash.”
Helen Hames is an Aging Advisor and Founder of Age Ambassador,based in Rhode Island. She works with older adults and their families to navigate decisions around aging at home or transitioning to senior living, recognizing the needs and priorities of today’s older adults continue to evolve with each generation. Helen’s approach centers on understanding what matters most to each individual and helping families plan with intention, clarity and compassion. Helen was honored with the 2025 Senior Champion of the Year Award and a RI State Citation for her advocacy and work that supports older adults in living fully through every season of life.