The Comfortable Distance of Caring

Few days back I was at CIMAR Hospital, Thrissur where I saw a ‘regular’ scenario. Couple of grandparents hovering over a newborn grandchild. There was a softness in their voices, an indulgence in their smiles, a patience that seemed endless. Every yawn was celebrated, and a grasp of their extended finger making them laugh. The new parents’ faces were a mix of happiness, joy, anxiousness, etc. 

We always say that the grandparents love their grandchildren more than they ever loved their own children. What made me think was, why does display of love skip a generation? Then it struck me that perhaps it is not because the love is deeper, but because it is lighter.

Their own children came with timetables and school fees, fever charts and future anxieties. Grandchildren arrive free of such encumbrances. They can be adored without being managed, cuddled without consequence, returned safely to their parents when the crying starts. It is love, distilled—emotion without administration.

I’m not criticising. This is just an observation.

While this phenomenon of unencumbered love between grandparents-grandkids is age-old, what makes this particularly relatable today is how closely it mirrors a larger habit we are acquiring. We increasingly prefer forms of caring that stop short of responsibility. We like without engaging too deeply, support without sacrificing too much, feel strongly without being accountable for outcomes. It shows up in many small, everyday ways—in resident WhatsApp groups where affection for stray dogs runs high, but ownership remains carefully avoided; compassion is asserted, responsibility negotiated away. Grandparental love feels like the most intimate and socially acceptable version of this instinct: deep emotion without daily consequence, attachment without authorship.

Modern life, after all, has perfected distance. We can care remotely. A FaceTime with your near and dear ones, a forwarded petition stands in for protest, a heart emoji replaces presence, a strongly worded message substitutes for follow-through. Our emotions travel faster than our actions, and often arrive alone.

There was a time when caring was inseparable from consequence. To love a child was to raise one. To keep an animal was to feed it. To belong to a community was to show up—physically, repeatedly, inconveniently. Today, we have discovered the comfort of partial commitment. Enough involvement to feel good, not enough to feel trapped.

Perhaps this is why grandparental affection feels so pure. It resembles the kind of caring we increasingly prefer—intense but episodic, heartfelt but bounded. It fits neatly into a life already crowded with obligations. Love, but only when convenient. Concern, but not ownership.

Even language has adapted to this preference. We speak of “being there” emotionally, not practically. We champion causes, not chores. We want outcomes without processes, solutions without sweat. Responsibility, like excess baggage, is something we try to avoid carrying ourselves.

None of this makes us cruel. If anything, it suggests we are overwhelmed. In a world that demands constant attention, caring at a distance becomes a coping mechanism. It allows us to remain humane without being consumed.

And yet, something is lost in this bargain. There is a particular kind of meaning that comes only from responsibility—the slow, unglamorous work of staying, fixing, repeating. Grandparents get to enjoy the poetry of love because someone else is handling the prose.

Perhaps that is the quiet truth this scene reveals. We have not stopped caring. We have simply learned to outsource its weight.

And in doing so, we have made love easier—but also, a little less complete.

(image source: shutterstock)