In a world that celebrates independence and speed, it is worth pausing for a moment to acknowledge the astonishing fact that human beings are born into perhaps the longest, most vulnerable dependence of any species on earth. We arrive into this world utterly unready. We can’t walk. We can’t talk. We can’t feed ourselves. We can’t even lift our heads. While other creatures find their footing in a matter of days or weeks, we take years – often well over a decade – just to function without someone watching over us every step of the way.
That’s not a design flaw. It’s a feature. Because it gives us something else: parents.
There is something deeply spiritual, almost sacred, in this arrangement. The human child doesn’t merely survive because of instinct or biology. We survive because someone chooses, every single day, to show up for us. To carry us. To care for us. To teach us how to navigate a crosswalk and how to navigate life. It is not a coincidence that the languages of the world are filled with words for mother and father that echo reverence. Amma. Papa. Maman. Abba. These words arrive early in a child’s mouth and often stay until the end of their lives.
If there is a God, and I believe there is, then surely parents are among the most faithful representatives of that divine presence in our lives. Not because they are perfect. But because they enter a contract no one else does: to be responsible for another life, every hour of every day, for years without end. There are no office hours for parenting. No vacation days. No performance bonuses. And yet, most of them do it with a kind of love that defies logic and a patience that stretches far beyond reason.
It’s easy to romanticize parenting, and just as easy to critique it. Some of us carry wounds from childhood, and not all parents live up to the role they are given. But that, too, is part of the complexity. This is not a story about perfect people doing flawless things. This is a story about flawed people who keep trying. Who get up in the middle of the night when no one else will. Who take jobs they don’t love to pay for school lunches. Who stand silently in the background while their children step into the light. Who spend the best years of their lives not chasing applause, but ensuring someone else has a chance to grow, to stumble, to become.
From a biological point of view, parental investment theory explains this prolonged human dependency. Evolution shaped us not to grow up fast, but to grow up well. Our massive brains, our capacity for language, empathy, learning – none of it could have developed without years of scaffolding. We needed someone to hold us upright until we could stand on our own. That scaffolding, in most cases, is our parents. Culture builds on this biological foundation. Whether it’s the joint family system in India or the Sunday dinners of North America, societies everywhere embed gratitude into family.
Or at least, they try.
But in recent times, we have started outsourcing the emotional depth of these relationships. Our schools teach math but not meaning. Our workplaces value independence but not interdependence. And our screens, for all their power, often make us forget who is just outside the frame – waiting, aging, hoping we’ll call.
Why do parents matter? Because someone has to keep the light on when the world gets dark. Because someone has to believe in us before we believe in ourselves. Because every single person reading this was once small, scared, and entirely dependent on someone else. That is not weakness. That is humanity.
Respect for parents should not be rooted in nostalgia or obligation, but in clarity. They are the reason we made it this far. They spent years giving us their best, even when their own lives weren’t easy. And while no one owes anyone blind loyalty, we do owe gratitude to those who carried us when we couldn’t carry ourselves.
It’s tempting, especially in busy adulthood, to think we’ll get to it later. The phone call. The visit. The thank you. But life doesn’t wait. The very people who once ran behind our bicycles and stood at the gate waving us off are slowing down now. Their worlds are shrinking even as ours are expanding. And it is in these moments that the meaning of their presence becomes clearer than ever.
You don’t have to write poetry or make grand gestures. You just have to show up. Pay attention. Listen without checking your phone. Offer love in the currency they value. Give them your time, not just your money. Because sometimes, what a parent needs most is not to be helped, but to be seen.
And if you’re lucky enough to still have your parents with you, then don’t wait for a better time. This is the better time.
They carried you. You can carry this.