• Eighteen years ago I moved from Australia to the UK and built a life for myself there.
• My parents are still in Australia and caring for them as they age from afar has been difficult.
• I love my life in the UK and don't plan to uproot my family.

I grew up in a small sugarcane farming community in rural northern Australia. It's the kind of place where there are more cane toads and crocodiles than people. My teenage years were spent fantasizing about escaping the quiet humdrum town where nothing happened, for an exciting life in a big city where you could go out every night of the week. World travel was also high on my agenda.

True to my word, I was out the door and on the first flight to the UK once my savings allowed. London was an ideal base with its cheap flights to Europe allowing for frequent trips to my dream destinations of Italy, Spain and France, and an easy to secure working holiday visa for young Australians, which also meant a strong Australian expat community in the city.

I had no idea that the handsome English stranger I met in a bar in central London would be my future husband. It's the reason that, 18 years later, I am now a permanent resident of the UK, raising two young boys who speak with British accents and have no idea what Vegemite is. I have so much to be grateful for in this life I've built on the other side of the world, but the price I am paying for that is becoming more painful as the years roll on: not being there for my parents as they get older.

The distance helped me fulfill my dreams

In the last two decades, I've ticked off many of my life goals, mainly thanks to my big move. With my husband, I've traveled to more than 60 countries, even quitting our jobs for six months to visit far-away places like Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, Bhutan, Oman and Georgia. Together, we've trekked the Himalayas, surfed in the Philippines, and motorbiked through Vietnam. We own our own house, and I've built a rewarding media career, cutting my teeth on business magazines as a young journalist in London.

Things are getting complicated

While I wouldn't change any of it, this life I've built on the other side of the world has started to feel bittersweet. My mom and dad are now 71 and 80 respectively, and while we make the long, expensive journey to Australia to see them each year, it's becoming more apparent with each trip how fragile their health is. With my father in particular, I've become painfully aware that we may only have a few years left to spend time with him.

I knew when I married my husband that this would be something I eventually would have to deal with if I chose to settle in the UK with him, but I put it to the back of my mind, and focused on how happy we were to be building a life together. We still are, but as my parents' vulnerability increases, so too does my guilt for not being there to support them.

For example, both my parents have regular doctor appointments, and need to travel to the nearest city which is a 90-minute drive away. This used to be no issue for my dad, who until recently, was a very dependable long-distance driver. But his mobility has been severely impacted in recent months, and he can no longer drive that far. My mom has not driven long distances for some time, so now they both rely on favors from friends to drive them to and from their appointments. It's not a small ask, as it's a whole day commitment for that person.

Medical issues aren't the only thing I worry about

Their town also recently experienced severe flooding, which saw my parents' whole backyard and downstairs area inundated with water. Going through the damaged items and cleaning up after the water receded was hard for them, both physically and mentally, and again, they had to rely on the kindness of others, this time neighbors. I did what I could from nearly 10,000 miles away. I completed their online government financial assistance applications for them, and I managed to find a volunteer delivery service to drop them off fresh, hot meals. All of this was helpful, but I still wasn't there to physically help them, and that made me feel like I'd abandoned them when they really needed me.

I don't know what the future will bring, but I do know I'll be in the UK

My husband, boys, and I are going to stay with them for three weeks this summer, but I will have to regroup with my sister to work out what support they now need, and how we will facilitate that, as while she lives in the same state as them, though she's still a half day of travel away. Organizing outsourced services is the only way I can realistically help, as I can't cut myself into two.

So while I realize that the years are passing quickly and that time with my parents is precious, I won't be moving back home. Our boys are settled into school and daycare here in the UK, and I also have my husband to think about, as he recently lost his dad and needs to support his mom.

If I had known 18 years ago how this would feel, would I have canceled that first date with my husband? Not a chance. The life we have together is precious too, and that is something to feel proud of, not guilty.

• My parents recently moved to a retirement community, and my daughter is moving home after college.
• As a member of the "sandwich generation," I'm making sure to prioritize myself, too.
• I'm embracing travel, writing, and fitness while planning for an adventurous retirement.

At 56, I'm a member of the "sandwich generation," the aptly named in-between time when family ties are both fleeting and consuming. My parents recently moved into a retirement community and in a few months, my daughter will graduate from college and move home with me as she looks for a job. My familial responsibilities are in full swing as I define my own middle age, which looks nothing like I'd expected.

It started with my divorce

The midlife demise of my 20-year marriage sent me reeling to reconstruct a life I'd thought was already built. I'm now a working single mom and, though my child is grown, she still relies on me financially (and, more than she deigns to admit, emotionally).

It's a heady time — one of anticipatory grief and deep gratitude, mucking through nostalgia for bygone eras, while looking ahead to a solitary future. Watching my daughter make her way in the world as my mom's chapters come to a close is a poignant reminder to fulfill the dreams that still lie before me.

I'm important, too

I often felt like I was held captive by the day-to-day tasks on my own calendar, as well as my duties supporting my parents and child. Now more than ever, I'm prioritizing activities that bring me joy.

For the past couple of years, I've enrolled in travel writing classes (both virtual and in-person), traveling for workshops in Nepal, Mexico, San Francisco, and Paris. I love bringing my trips to life through stories. Though writing has been something I've always enjoyed, I'm now honing my craft. The deep friendships I've made in my writing community have been an unexpected bonus.

I'm also learning to paint. I've never considered myself an artist, but the tactile meditation of brush on paper has brought unexpected joy as I paint the landscapes and buildings I've seen on my travels.

I've developed a passion for shelling (my mom calls it an obsession and she's not wrong). My parents live on the west coast of Florida, a few miles from the water, and I visit frequently. Each morning, I head off before sunrise, reaching the beach as the sun's early rays turn the sky to cotton candy. I've learned all the names — lightning whelk, Florida fighting conch and, my favorite, the banded tulip. My collection sits in jars and bowls in my New Jersey home, reminding me of my visits with my parents.

I'm also studying French, brushing up on the language I learned in high school and college. While not yet fluent, I can read signs and menus and engage in basic conversation with French-speakers on my travels. I plan to add Spanish classes, next.

I'm thinking big for myself

With retirement looming, I have plans for longer, more adventurous travel such as camping in Africa, spending a month in India, hiking Spain's Camino de Santiago. There's nothing like lugging water, clutching the supports in lurching rickshaws, and trudging on ancient cobblestones to remind me of the need for physical strength and balance. In her career, my mom was a gym teacher who biked, ran and played tennis in her spare time. Now, she has difficulty walking. Seeing her decline reminds me to maintain the strength required to lift my suitcase into the overhead compartment. To combat this, I try to grab a quick 20 minutes on the treadmill and a 10-minute arm workout after a long day at the office.

This life stage looks nothing like I'd imagined it would, yet I'm thriving as I savor time with my parents and my daughter, while still making time for myself and my future. Striking a balance that meets everyone's needs, my sandwich years are turning out to be the best years of my life.

• When my husband was diagnosed with cancer, I was shell-shocked.
• My routines were upended at the same time I became his caregiver.
• I reached out to family and other caregivers for support.

People often remark on how healthy my husband is. At 82, Barry scampers up and down hills like a mountain goat and out-paddles many members of his kayak group. So it came as a shock in September when we discovered he had stage 2 lymphoma. Cancer? Unbelievable.

I was amazed by Barry's reaction to his cancer diagnosis. He didn't ruminate endlessly over what he could have done to prevent it, as I might have. A science journalist, he has researched and written a great deal about cancer. "Some cells mutate when they divide," he said to me. "If they didn't, we wouldn't be here. It's part of evolution."

His diagnosis changed our plans — and our routines

Not only did we cancel an international trip when we found out, but in spectacularly bad timing, the routines that anchored my life also came to an abrupt stop. Both my yoga teachers stopped teaching, my weekly walking partner left town for the season, and as a freelance writer, I had few assignments.

In the Myers-Briggs personality assessment, I'm known as a "J," a person who needs structure. The prospect of several empty, shapeless months was deeply discouraging for me.

It took time to adapt to being a caregiver

Because Barry's treatment plan involved no radiation and only one chemo infusion every three weeks, we joked that he was experiencing 'cancer lite.' But his energy level dipped precipitously, and sometimes, I felt as though I had chemo fatigue, too. Our home situation reminded me of the beginning of the pandemic, except everything stopped for us while the rest of the world carried on.

The uncertainty was the worst part. After the oncologist and nurses repeated the mantra "only three chemo treatments" several times, we optimistically penciled in the date when we hoped to fly to Mexico, where we spend part of the year. Then one week, during an appointment, our oncologist offhandedly said, "Could be five, maybe six treatments."

What? I fumbled for Barry's hand under the table. "I thought you said three," I said, trying to sound neutral.

He shrugged. "We don't know for sure."

I was furious at him for messing with our plans. How dare he? Of course, I was ignoring the fact that despite all the advances in the field, cancer is still an unpredictable science.

I reached out to family and other caregivers for support

As Barry's caregiver, I felt a responsibility to be resilient, but didn't always feel that way. My sister helped. "Call me anytime," she said. She sent Barry homemade oatmeal cookies with a note that said, "The way I'm supporting you is by supporting Louisa."

Through the internet, I found an online support group for caregivers sponsored by the University of California San Francisco Medical Center. It was only once a month — not enough for me — but I appreciated hearing from other caregivers about their cancer situations. We shared stories about feeling overlooked and neglected at times. Listening to them, I felt grateful that Barry's case was relatively mild. We weren't living through grinding years of cancer, and he wasn't going to die (not yet, anyway!).

I also reached out to other family members. My brother-in-law, who lives with depression, told me that accompanying my sister to chemo appointments during her breast cancer a few years earlier had given him a sense of purpose and direction. Unlike me, he wasn't perturbed at not having much of an independent life.

Barry, on the other hand, thrived on his solo time at the infusion center, chatting with the other patients. He joked that it was like flying Business Class, with reclining seats and gracious nurses attending to his every whim. Although he enjoyed introducing me to his new-found friends, he didn't want me there all six hours, and I, too, enjoyed my "day off."

He's cancer-free now, but we're still getting through it

It's now been four months since Barry's diagnosis, and I am indeed writing this from sunny Mexico. Barry's latest scan showed him free of cancer, and his energy is gradually returning. And I'm back into yoga.

But I don't have the pillowy confidence I once had, and maybe that's a good thing. I used to brag about my health — how fit I was, how I'd live to 100 or more. Now, I'm more humble. I feel for people with cancer, and especially for their caregivers. I know cancer never happens in a vacuum. It's a family disease, where everyone is affected, and no one is spared.