Caring for my 88-year-old mom meant unexpected hours of tech support.

The reality of caring for an aging parent rarely matches the expectations we hold beforehand. I learned that lesson the hard way, not through medical crises, but through the quiet frustration of forgotten passwords and locked accounts.

When my father passed away, my mother remained in her New York City apartment, thriving in her mid-80s. She was fiercely self-reliant, handling her own finances, scheduling her doctor visits, and even dating. Her iPhone 16 was an extension of her independence, and she cherished her bustling social calendar and beloved apartment. However, a sharp decline in her health changed everything.

It quickly became apparent that living alone in Manhattan without full-time assistance was no longer viable, and the cost of in-home care was prohibitive. So, we made the decision to relocate her to an assisted living community in Connecticut, close to my own family. Though she agreed to the move, her displeasure was evident. I found solace in the idea that she would finally have consistent support for meals, medication, and daily activities, allowing us to enjoy more meaningful time together. What I failed to foresee was the immense role that digital access would play in our new dynamic.

Managing passwords and online accounts has become an unexpected cornerstone of her care. A simple task, like retrieving a dental reimbursement form from one of her five health insurance portals, became a frustrating hour-long session. We wrestled with a forgotten password, a verification code sent to a defunct email address, and ultimately had to conference her in with the insurance company just to grant me permission to speak on her behalf. Over the past two years, this type of digital troubleshooting has come to define our time together.

My mother has never used a password manager like Dashlane or Apple’s built-in equivalent. Her Parkinson’s disease makes it difficult for her to hold the phone steady enough to set up Face ID. Instead, her system was a simple black-and-white composition notebook where she logged every credential. For years, this analog method worked perfectly, granting her access to bank accounts, investment portfolios, and insurance portals. She paid bills, ordered essentials, and sent digital greeting cards with ease.

Then, two-factor authentication arrived. A password alone was no longer sufficient. Accounts demanded codes sent to devices, backup email addresses, security questions, and in-app approvals. She was completely overwhelmed. The more time I spend untangling these systems, the more I recognize that modern tech innovations often overlook users like her.

We often discuss caregiving in terms of medical appointments and prescriptions, but rarely discuss the moments when a parent cannot figure out why her phone is silent (she accidentally hit the mute switch), cannot access a doctor’s message on MyChart due to identity verification steps, or cannot deposit a check because her hands shake too much to photograph it. The woman who once navigated the complexities of life in New York City now relies on me to decode a digital world that assumes everyone has a password manager, multiple devices for verification, and the patience for chatbot support. My mother cannot manage any of these things.

Instead of simplifying her life, these security and convenience tools have created new barriers. Every time she hands me her phone in frustration, she loses a small piece of her autonomy. For a woman who has been self-sufficient for nearly nine decades, this erosion of independence and confidence is devastating.

What strikes me most is the invisible nature of this labor. I suspect many adult children are in the same boat, acting as unofficial tech support for their parents. We are not just managing healthcare; we are helping them traverse a world that presupposes a level of physical and cognitive agility they no longer possess. For me, this has become one of the most critical and unspoken aspects of caring for my mom.