We often think of career paths as a straight line—child work, adult work, elder care. But in practice, mine has circled beautifully. I began with children, then spent the last two decades with adults and older adults. And what surprises me, even now, is how much the two worlds speak to each other.
You wouldn’t think working with older adults would deepen your insight into childhood—but it does. Because when you sit with people in their eighties and nineties, you see life in its full arc. You see what stays, what fades, what truly matters.
One of the most striking patterns I’ve seen is the way we carry our sensory preferences, our ways of coping, and our relational needs throughout life. A child who needs a quiet space to settle often grows into an adult who needs the same. An older person resisting support with dignity echoes a toddler insisting “I can do it myself.”
These are not regressions—they are echoes. Reminders that at every stage of life, we crave agency, connection, and rhythm.
What older adults have taught me about children is patience. The value of slowing down. Of not rushing development, but sitting beside it, supporting it gently. Of understanding that loss of function, just like emerging function, requires time, space, and respect.
And just as children use play to make sense of the world, older adults use storytelling. Reminiscence becomes their version of play—a way to hold onto identity, sift through memory, and find peace.
OT has shown me that care across the lifespan is more similar than it is different. Whether we’re helping a child dress themselves or an elder maintain that same independence, it all comes down to the same truth: people want to be seen, heard, and supported as they are.
Sometimes, looking back helps us understand how to move forward. And sometimes, working with the end of life teaches us everything about how it begins.
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