Column: "The vulnerable position of older people in society."

I see myself as a vulnerable older person. I don’t say this lightly; it’s something you feel in small moments, in things that are taken for granted by others. Like contacting doctors or everyday tasks such as grocery shopping. In the past, you could just walk in, speak to someone, and be listened to. You could still pay with cash. Now everything has to go through systems, passwords, digital forms, and almost everyone pays by card or apps. It feels distant, complicated. And it aches. Sometimes I stand in a shop, feeling small, as if I’m doing something wrong, as if I no longer fit in a world that is moving faster and faster.

Society is changing at high speed. Everything is becoming digital. For those of us who didn’t grow up in this world, it feels like missing out. Everything points to a screen, and if you don’t know the system well, you are at risk: being scammed, making mistakes, errors that feel enormous in a system you don’t understand. This is not incompetence; it is vulnerability. It affects not just your mind but your heart.

Loneliness plays a huge role. If young people already feel lonely, how must it feel for older people? Children live far away, have their own lives, and cannot always be there. Of course, there is video calling, WhatsApp, and other apps. That helps a little. But it never replaces the warmth of a conversation at the table, a hand on your shoulder, a walk together. Sometimes that contact is so small, yet so powerful in meaning.

There are initiatives: activities, housing where young and old live together, meeting places. But it doesn’t always fit. Not every older person feels addressed, and not everyone knows how to find their way. Maybe we should more often ask what older people themselves need, instead of deciding what seems right. Because those who don’t feel heard can drift away. That hurts, deeply.

Another thing I find important is that society is designed so that children actually have the space to care for their parents. That they can live nearby, have flexible work hours, and the possibility to be present when needed. It’s about real involvement, not symbolic gestures or rules that make it impossible to be there. From my own experience, I know how much it matters when someone simply makes time, listens, sees that you are there, and lets you be.

Financially, it is also a challenge. Those who live on little feel every change, every new measure in daily life. A few euros less in the wallet can mean the difference between eating or saving, between security and stress. And yet the discussion often remains abstract, as if numbers and statistics weigh heavier than the life you live every day. It feels as if a little is constantly being nibbled away at pensions, at security, at the small amount of peace older people have built up. For us, this is tangible, something you feel, and it makes you vulnerable.

What I hope for us older people is that we are not forgotten. That we don’t have to bear the blows of a changing society. That we are seen as people of value, with stories, with the right to attention and respect. Self-reliance sounds good, but it’s not achievable for everyone. In the end, we must help one another. Include older people. Involve them. Let them feel that they matter. Because those who don’t feel seen gradually lose their footing. That is a pain that runs deep.

I hope society sees this. That there is space for connection, for solidarity, for a society where older people have something to live for. Not just to survive, but to truly live. Not just help from institutions, but also from children and the local community who are close by. Because without hope, vulnerability becomes heavy. With hope, with attention, with humanity, we can carry that burden together. For all of us.