This week’s episode of The Money with Katie Show covers the expensive gauntlet of financial and physical labor required to transition loved ones into the “final phase” of their lives: potentially decades of retirement and eventually, end-of-life care. 

This transition from providing care to potentially needing it marks a sort of full-circle moment in the human lifespan, and is typically characterized by our inability to be entirely self-sufficient—someone (or something) else must fill in the gaps. 

If we’re lucky, this looks like a big pot of money squirreled away over one’s lifetime, ironclad insurance policies, and the teams of care workers or facilities they can buy. As such, the episode primarily focused on the tactical, fiscal elements of this transition: the checklists, the financial and healthcare professionals, and legal preparation. 

But I found myself feeling periodically despondent while developing the episode, imagining my future as a pink-haired granny alone in a care center. I felt preemptive pings of loneliness at the idea, and hoped I’d like my own future setup as much as my Grandma Jean likes her continuing care retirement community.

For this reason and others, big transitions—and how to prepare for them—are on my mind.

It’s through this sobering lens that I’m reflecting on my recent cross-country move, and the sheer absurdity of hauling 5,000 pounds of life detritus through mountain ranges, over bodies of water, and under countless underpasses, just to set up the same shop somewhere else.

It struck me that this phase of life—graduating into a larger, more “adult” home, albeit still as renters—is characterized by eerie similarities to the end-of-life phase I described earlier: It’s a state of subsidized self-sufficiency. 

After all, we didn’t pack, transport, or unload our belongings ourselves—two teams of deceptively strong, sweaty men did that for us, in exchange for roughly $8,000 (of which we’re holding our breath the Air Force reimburses a sizable chunk). 

We didn’t traverse Wyoming, Utah, and Nevada by covered wagon or foot—we traveled in two vehicles that we have to pay to own, maintain, and insure. 

We didn’t drive 17 hours straight through; we stayed in a Residence Inn in Salt Lake City, booking two rooms to keep our dog and cat separated (that’ll be $200 in additional pet fees, please).

And upon arriving, we didn’t weave the mats for the bathrooms from nearby palm fronds or fashion the garbage bins out of tree bark from the backyard—we took our asses to Target (twice) to pay a premium for trendy consumables in a pleasantly lit big box store.

There are few things that remind you of your lack of true self-sufficiency—your utter reliance on money and the things it can buy—like moving across the country. 

At every discombobulated turn, you’re faced with your dependence. Untethered from your routines, you must contend with new obstacles (oh, shit, there’s no washer/dryer…I guess we need to buy them…is that an electric or gas hookup? *begins rhythmically head bopping to Home Depot song*). You must rely on the proximity of the nearest Chipotle while awaiting your kitchen supplies or sustaining yourself through hundreds of miles of desert driving (is five visits in four days excessive?).

Of course, each transaction costs money. And if you’re a homeowner, multiply the experience by about 250% and hold on tight: On day 2, a rogue beeping in the attic of our new house had us hoisting one another off the top of a rickety ladder into the brains of the home, where we found a leaking A/C unit working overtime to cool down the house in a 105 degree northern California heat wave. The homeowner graciously and apologetically rushed a repairman over, and I found myself feeling quietly grateful that at least that expense wouldn’t be added to our list. 

My status as a human domesticated house cat is probably clear by now; most of my scrappy problem-solving skills honed from years of being too broke to pay other people to help have been blunted by the privilege that accompanies having resources. 

Still, the experience reminded me—with almost cosmic timing, given the episode’s release date—that most of our self-sufficiency in the modern world is an illusion that boils down to little more than money, and most things typically cost about 20% more than originally estimated. 

Unless you’re a survivalist with a doomsday bunker and an understanding of how to wire your own electric from post-apocalyptic power lines à la Bill from The Last of Us (a pop culture reference I’ve now made twice on this site, weirdly enough), you’ll probably find yourself relying on money a lot throughout life’s big transitions, more than any mechanical know-how or abundance of time and energy. 

I could draw a few predictable conclusions here, the most obvious of which is probably, “I don’t know, keep saving? Don’t live beyond your means, because life is expensive enough already?” and that, of course, would be true—but there’s another, subtler element of these types of experiences that feels worth highlighting, too: 

Transitions are bumpy: Getting married (or more specifically, having a wedding), moving across the country, buying your first home, having your first (or second, or third) child, sending a kid to college, moving a parent into a care facility…these passages are not just financially burdensome, but emotionally challenging, too—even the events that are “supposed” to be categorically happy or exciting. The ups and downs can feel like a spiritual roller coaster full of tolls that require a credit card on file, which can be, of course, the worst kind of ride. 

It seems to me that while most of us know we need to financially prepare (save for a down payment, invest for retirement, set aside a rotunda-sized pile of cash for tuition), we don’t often psychologically prepare ourselves for these transitions beyond the requisite freaking out that can push us to act in our own best interest and start contributing to the brokerage account.

Because I, too, made a crucial mistake in my estimation of our move. I thought, Oh, between our own savings and the Air Force’s subsidies, we’re covered—we paid for the full pack and unpack, I’ve got labeled tubs set aside with all the things we need until our stuff arrives, and I set up utilities ahead of time. We’re even luxuriating in the “overnight pitstop” of a very respectable Residence Inn. What could go wrong?! I’ve addressed every possible snafu ahead of time.

It’s probably this detached sterility that’s to blame for the homesickness that hit me like a ton of bricks upon arriving in California: I had spent so much time financially and logistically preparing that I didn’t address the emotional aspect of moving somewhere totally new; of stopping one chapter to start a new one. 

And while this is undoubtedly the fuzzier, softer element—a component of big changes that many don’t have the privilege of devoting energy to—it’s an important hurdle that isn’t money-responsive. You can’t outsource your anxiety, grief, or overwhelm to a team of sweaty dudes (although Henah reminded me, somewhat cheekily, that money can buy Lexapro). Sometimes, those feelings are the neurological neon signs that tell us we’re pushing too hard, too fast. 

Those are the features of life’s big transitions that actually require self-sufficiency—and, sometimes, asking for help. 

Somewhat circularly, they have financial implications, too, as the pressure to execute the big life events fabulously—and in quick succession—might mean getting in over your head.  

Going slowly through these big transitions—having patience with yourself and your loved ones who may process things differently, not putting pressure on yourself or others to get it “right” right away, and asking for help when you need it—might be the only way to make it through.

No, you don’t need to pay for daycare and invest for the college fund and retirement simultaneously—and yes, you can put something on the back burner for now. 

Yes, it’s perfectly reasonable to feel sad and scared while making arrangements for an aging parent, and no, you don’t need to do everything all at once. 

No, you don’t need to perfectly furnish your first home within the first six months—and yes, it’s okay if your kitchen is a little dated.

What you don’t want to do is subject life’s toll-ridden emotional roller coaster to the tyranny of the “shoulds”—especially at the expense of your wallet and mental health. 

“I should own a home by now.” 

“I should be able to send my kids to college without debt.” 

“I should be able to afford daycare and simultaneously contribute the maximum to my 401(k).”

These are, of course, fine goals, but the implicit pressures that accompany them can chip away at their positive outcomes, clouding each experience with a persistent feeling of unease. 

And if you find that some of these transitions won’t ever be for you (having a child, buying a home, indulging in a traditional retirement), that’s okay, too—both money and emotional capacity are finite resources for most of us. Fortunately, when we allow ourselves the space to step back and consult our little internal cast of characters (Joy, Fear, etc.), those priorities might emerge more clearly.