We Couldn’t Do This Alone
How hiring help changed the hardest part of helping aging parents downsize
By the time my in-laws had to downsize their 4,500+ square foot home and belongings, we had already spent years answering a steady stream of questions:
Do you want this?
Do you want that?
Are you sure you don’t want this?
It wasn’t just exhausting. It was emotionally loaded. Because every object carried a story.
And every decision felt like a locked commitment. So, we didn’t commit to anything.
With both of them being diagnosed with dementia, we were faced with downsizing sooner than any of us expected. We were doing our best, but it became clear:
We couldn’t be the family and the logistics team and the emotional shock absorbers.
The Help We Didn’t Know Existed
A neighbor once mentioned a service that helped her mother downsize. When the time came, I searched and found the National Association of Senior Move Managers — professionals who specialize in helping older adults relocate and reduce their households.
We found and hired a team that helped sort belongings, created a floor plan for the new condo, coordinated the move and even set up the new condo.
On paper, it sounded logistical. In reality, it was emotional load-bearing.
What made the biggest difference, though, wasn’t just the process. It was the people.
The team consisted of two young women, Megan and Sam, who brought an energy into the house that we didn’t realize we needed. They were organized and efficient, but also warm, patient, and deeply kind. They didn’t treat this like a job to finish — they treated it like supporting a family going through a tough transition.
They took time to listen to stories. Sam bonded with my mother-in-law over her Pfaltzgraff dishes when she realized her own grandmother had the same pattern. She connected with my father-in-law over his eclectic music collection, eventually leaving with a CD of an artist she’d never heard before — a gift he was delighted to pass along.
Megan was a rockstar organizer and communicator. She kept the rest of the family informed of the progress and the challenges, which provided us insight into how to better support my in-laws emotionally. She also had the patience of a saint when my mother-in-law would forget the decisions that were made during a sort or re-open packed boxes before the next sort, and they’d have to go through things again.
Before long, my in-laws genuinely looked forward to the sorting days. The sessions felt a little less like loss and started feeling like visits.
That shift changed everything.
At first, it felt indulgent. Until we realized we weren’t paying for boxes. We were paying for guidance and support through a difficult process.
Someone neutral managing the process.
Someone absorbing the intensity.
Someone helping the family stay sane.
Would we do it again? Without hesitation. In fact, we hired the same team to handle their move to assisted living.
Letting Someone Else Be the Messenger
One of the biggest gifts the team provided was simple: they weren’t us.
They listened to the stories behind belongings (the ones we’ve heard dozens of times through the years) and then gently guided decisions forward.
The floor planning for the new space alone changed everything. Instead of abstract anxiety about whether things would fit, decisions were grounded in reality:
Yes, there is room for your treasured dining table.
There is space for 2 filing cabinets, not five.
This space needs to remain safe and functional.
It turned emotional debates into practical choices. And sometimes, parents hear reality differently from an expert than from their children — even when the message is identical.
The Reality Check No One Expects
The team also helped reset expectations about the value of items that needed to be left behind.
Like many families, my in-laws assumed certain items would sell easily. But the professionals explained something we knew, but couldn’t convince them:
The market is saturated with Baby Boomers downsizing similar belongings.
That pristine 12-place setting of Pfaltzgraff dishes? Every consignment shop already had several. None were selling.
It mattered that someone outside the family said that — repeatedly.
When the Boxes Kept Coming
Even with help, we weren’t prepared for how much there was.
Closets looked organized but somehow endless. Boxes emerged from storage like Mary Poppins’ carpet bag — each one requiring decisions. My mother-in-law was an expert packer. It was amazing how much she could fit into a box or cabinet.
We also uncovered the extent of her apparent shopping compulsion, especially in the early stages of dementia:
Thousands of Ziploc bags. Hundreds of Styrofoam cups.
Dozens of tablecloths still in packaging.
Fifteen gallons of ice cream. 30 lbs of ground beef.
Somewhere, Costco was very proud.
It was funny at that moment. And heartbreaking underneath
Because accumulation isn’t always about things. Sometimes it’s about anxiety, control, or trying to hold onto stability as memory begins to decline.
Meaning Lives in the Eye of the Receiver
I noted an important lesson when my husband chose what to keep. He gravitated toward practical items, which worried my mother-in-law. To her, he wasn’t choosing the meaningful or valuable pieces.
One day he told her: “Mom, I didn’t take some of the things that mean something to you. But I took a scraper from Dad’s workbench. I use it often when I work in my shop, and I think of Dad each time I do. That’s meaningful to me.”
It was a quiet realization for us. The heirloom isn’t always the heirloom. Meaning lives in the eye of the receiver.
The downsizing team understood this instinctively. After noticing my mother-in-law’s attachment to a childhood baby doll and her father’s farm boots, they incorporated those items into the new condo as decor — honored and visible.
It wasn’t about keeping more.
It was about carrying forward what mattered.
The Hard Truth About Legacy
The hardest part for my father-in-law was his books. Thousands of them.
The team provided a limit for the number of boxes of books that could reasonably fit in the condo (he still brought more). He had hoped the remainder could be sold or donated to a university. The team contacted dealers, libraries, and schools across the state. There was virtually no interest.
He was heartbroken. He even suggested at the last minute that we rent a UHaul, load up his books and drive them to various book dealers to sell them.
Downsizing sometimes forces an uncomfortable truth: the world does not always want what mattered deeply to someone.
That realization isn’t just about objects. It’s about legacy.
What Actually Made the Difference
What helped most wasn’t simply hiring professionals. It was how they made the process work:
Someone neutral held space for stories
Decisions were grounded in real constraints
Expectations were set by facts, not family dynamics
Everyone reinforced the same message
If outside help isn’t possible, these principles still apply — they just require more emotional energy from the family.
Carrying Forward the Lessons
Downsizing isn’t about furniture and household goods. It’s about identity. Memory. Grief.
It’s about the fear that if the object disappears, the memory might disappear too.
Watching this process changed how I think about our own home. I don’t want our son to someday face decades of decisions disguised as boxes. We’ll be sure to set aside some funds to pay for someone to help him when the time comes.
And we’ve started asking different questions now — while the choices are still ours to make:
What do we really need?
What do we want to carry forward?
What are we leaving behind for the people we love to deal with?
Because in the end, downsizing isn’t about letting go of a life. It’s about deciding what parts of that life continue on.
Written by Gloria Peterson
Gloria Peterson writes about her personal experiences and the lessons she’s learned while navigating caregiving for aging parents and the pressures of being part of the Sandwich Generation. You can read more from Gloria on Medium.
Source: We Couldn’t Do This Alone
