I have older parents and always worried they wouldn't be here for milestones. However, I've realized there are benefits to their age, too.

When I was born in the winter of 1991, my mother was 39 years old. She turned 40 before my first birthday, while my dad hit the big 4-0 when I was only 2. Their reasoning for having children later than many of their peers was multifaceted: they didn’t meet until their late 20s, then school took center stage for a decade or so, pushing kids out of the picture for another decade.

For much of my early childhood, I didn’t know the difference between my parents and my friends’ (often younger) parents. In fact, I don’t think I can point to a single instance when my parents’ age even crossed my mind before I entered elementary school. They were just my parents — my playmates and role models — and that was it.

Then, while chatting on the first-grade playground, a new friend and I started talking about our family members’ birthdays and ages. My mom was 46, I told her. With wide eyes, she shared that her mom was just 26. Her grandmother, who’d also had children very young, was only in her early 40s.

Suddenly, I came to the staggering realization that my parents were older than some of my friends’ grandparents. A quick blip in a casual conversation set off an anxiety that would be hard to shake.

My parents’ age became a source of worry

My anxiety around my parents’ age grew as I got older, as did my generalized anxiety, though I wasn’t officially diagnosed with an anxiety disorder until late high school. The most common theme of my worry was losing my parents prematurely because of their age. I remember sitting awake at night, mentally calculating how old each of my parents would be when I reached particular milestones.

When I was 10, they’d be nearing 50. When I graduated from high school, their 60s would loom. If I got married at 30, they’d be 70. The math made me feel scared and isolated as I wondered if they’d be there to mark special occasions, like I expected most of my friends’ parents to be.

Over the years, I noticed subtle and not-so-subtle differences between my parents and others. While many of my friends’ parents were fans of modern pop music or enamored with tunes from the ’80s, mine introduced me to ’60s and ’70s classic rock. We had a record player in the living room that spun everything from Pink Floyd to Carole King, remnants of my parents’ youth.

I know “oldies” were likely a fixture for some younger parentstoo, but I grew to love the fact that I could identify songs on the classic rock station — and it became a fun way to connect with my mom and dad, who had seen some of these artists perform live.

By the time I reached high school, a trend in my friendships emerged: I was (mostly unconsciously) drawn to friends who were also in the “old parents club.” Many of my pals with younger parents were still around, of course, but I made quick bonds with those who could relate to the unique anxieties and delights of having parents with similar (read: more… mature) life experiences. Once I learned I wasn’t alone in my plight, I slowly began to see my situation as more of a blessing than a curse.

Despite the pitfalls, I’m grateful to have older-than-average parents

As each life experience was checked off my list — high school graduation, college, first “real” job, engagement, marriage, and eventually having my own daughter at age 32 — I was overwhelmed with gratitude that my parents are still around. I’d made the painful realization that age wasn’t the only metric in my worries; I watched friends and classmates lose parents of all ages far too early, which drove home the point that even if my parents had been 25 when I was born, it wouldn’t have guaranteed a darn thing.

Today, I watch my parents enjoy new grandparenthood in their 70s, and I still grapple with a mixture of appreciation and nagging anxiety. My childhood worries (and mental math-ing) haven’t entirely subsided, though I manage them more effectively with a combination of therapy, medication, and mindfulness. While I struggle to assuage the very human experience of anticipatory grief, I’m determined not to waste the present moment lamenting uncertainties about the future.

And while I might snarkily poke fun at my parents for falling into baby boomer stereotypes (like accidentally texting me 10-minute-long voice memos of nothing but grocery store background noise) on occasion, gratitude prevails. Gratitude for the childhood they gave me and my brother, for spending their 40s and 50s chasing me around on all my shenanigans, for the things they continue to teach me, and for their dedication to showing up for me and my daughter — even when their knees are a bit creaky. All of it has happened right on time.