When Did I Become Just ‘Grandma’?

“Mom, all grandmas are supposed to babysit, and you need to dress your age.”

Ashley’s voice sliced through the kitchen like a cold wind, stirring the pot of chili I’d just set on the stove. My hand trembled, the wooden spoon clattering against the pot. I tried to laugh it off. “Is that a rule in some grandma handbook I missed?”

She rolled her eyes, arms crossed over her chest, as if she could block out every part of me she didn’t approve of. “You know what I mean, Mom. You’re not forty anymore. The ripped jeans, the pink hair streak—aren’t you embarrassed?”

I wanted to scream, but I bit my tongue. At 62, I thought I’d earned the right to dress how I pleased, to have a little fun. But to Ashley, my daughter, I was just ‘Grandma Linda’ now. The babysitter. The backup plan for when her life as a working mom got too hectic to handle. Suddenly, every decision I made was up for debate.

The grandkids—Emily and Jake—were at the table, coloring. I saw Emily glance up at me, her big brown eyes flickering with confusion. Was she wondering why her mom sounded upset? Or was she just picking up on the way tension hung in the air like the scent of burnt toast?

Ashley’s husband, Mike, pretended to be engrossed in his phone. Typical. Never one for confrontation, he’d rather scroll than say a word. I wanted to shout at him, “Say something! Tell her I’m more than a free babysitter with gray hair!” But the words caught in my throat.

“So, what, you want me to wear cardigans and start knitting?” I asked, forcing a smile.

Ashley sighed. “I just want you to act like a grandma. Be there for your grandkids. Stop trying so hard to be young.”

The words stung. Did she not remember the years I spent working two jobs, missing school plays, and burning the midnight oil to raise her alone after her father left? Wasn’t I always there, even when there was barely enough of me to go around?

“Act like a grandma…” I muttered, turning away so she wouldn’t see my eyes well up. “What does that even mean, Ashley?”

She didn’t answer, just pursed her lips and started gathering the kids’ things. “We’ll come by tomorrow at six. I hope you’re not going out—again.”

I watched her leave, the door clicking shut like the final word in a long argument. The silence that followed was deafening.

That night, alone in my apartment, I stared at myself in the mirror. My hair was wild, the streak of pink catching the light. My jeans were faded and torn at the knee—an act of rebellion, maybe, or just comfort. But who was I rebelling against?

My phone buzzed. It was a text from my best friend, Joan. “Open mic night! Don’t flake. You promised!”

For a moment, I hesitated. Should I cancel? Stay home and bake cookies for Emily and Jake instead? Would that make me a better grandma, a better mom?

At the bar, the lights were low, the crowd rowdy. I took the stage, my guitar in hand, and sang the song I wrote the day I found out I was going to be a grandmother. “You’re Still You”—a song about not losing yourself no matter what labels life throws at you. When I finished, the applause was thunderous. Someone shouted, “Rock on, Grandma!” I laughed, letting the joy fill me up. For a moment, I was more than just someone’s mother, someone’s babysitter—I was Linda.

When I got home, Ashley had left a voicemail. Her voice was tight. “Mom, I saw your post. The kids saw it too. Emily asked why you’re always out at night and not with them. Can we talk?”

The next morning, I braced myself for the inevitable confrontation. Ashley arrived, jaw set, kids in tow. “Can we talk privately?” she asked, motioning me into the hallway.

She started before I could even close the door. “Mom, I just don’t get it. Why can’t you just settle down like other grandmas? Why does everything have to be about you?”

“Because for most of my life, it never was,” I snapped, surprised by the heat in my voice. “I gave up so much to make sure you never went without. Now you want me to give up the rest of myself, too?”

Ashley’s eyes filled with tears. “I just want you to be there for my kids. They need you.”

“I am there,” I said, softer now. “But I need to be here for me, too. Don’t you see? Maybe I’m not the grandma you expected. But I’m still me. I can love them and still have my own life.”

She was quiet for a long moment. “It’s just… hard. I feel like you’re slipping away. Like you care more about being young than being with us.”

I reached out and took her hand. “I’m not slipping away. I just want to show Emily and Jake that growing older doesn’t mean you have to disappear. That you can still have dreams, even after the world tells you you’re done.”

Ashley looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time in years. “I’m sorry, Mom. I guess I was just scared. It’s hard being a mom. I don’t want to do it alone.”

I pulled her into a hug. “You’re not alone. But I need you to let me be me. Please.”

Later, as I watched Emily and Jake giggle over my guitar, I realized being a grandma didn’t mean I had to stop being Linda. Maybe I could be both—if only my family would let me.

Now I wonder: When did the world decide that grandmas had to fit a mold? And who gets to say what growing old should look like, anyway? What do you think—should we have to trade our freedom for family?