The Sandwich Squeeze at 33

THE EVERYTHING YEARS • May 31, 2026

Last reviewed: June 2026 by Annie Wright, LMFT

7:18 a.m. The sharp click of the car seat buckle punctuates the quiet hum of the morning. I feel the small weight of my toddler settle against me as I secure the straps, his soft breath warm on my cheek. Outside, the sky is a pale wash of early light. My phone buzzes in my pocket, a text from Mom. I glance down: “Can you help me with this cardiology bill? It’s all Greek to me.” I sigh, the familiar knot tightening in my chest. Some mornings the pull between my own family and my aging mother feels like being asked to stand in two places at once.

I take a breath and catch my reflection in the car window: tired eyes, strands of hair escaping their ponytail. Every minute of the day ahead already carries the weight of three roles at once, mother, daughter, professional, and it isn’t even 7:30.

In fifteen years of work with driven women in their early thirties, specifically those holding a toddler in one hand and a parent’s cardiology bill in the other, I’ve seen a pattern so consistent I now ask about it directly in a first session: the exhaustion that brings her into my office rarely announces itself as caregiving strain. It shows up as a marriage that feels distant, a promotion she can’t bring herself to want, a body that won’t sleep past 4 a.m. even on the one night no one needs her.

This is what I want to name carefully. Not the logistics of caregiving, though we’ll get there, but the specific psychological terrain of being thirty-three and squeezed between two generations that both, reasonably, need you. What it does to your nervous system, your marriage, what your children absorb while watching you do it. And what a path through it, rather than a resolution of it, actually looks like.

Of course this feels like too much. It is too much, measured against what any one person’s bandwidth was ever built to hold. That’s not failure. That’s an accurate read of the math.

For deeper reading, I also recommend my related guides on anticipatory grief and the sandwich generation, what your children absorb while watching a grandparent decline, and the wider Everything Years archive. For public health context, I’m grounding this article partly in Pew Research Center’s data on the scale of this generational overlap.

When two generations need you at once

Naomi is thirty-three, and the first time she sat across from me, she was still wearing her badge from work, the lanyard twisted twice around her fingers like she needed something to do with her hands. It was late October, one of those gray Tuesday afternoons where the light gives up by four. She had a hospital parking garage receipt crumpled in the pocket of her cardigan, the kind you get validated at the front desk and then forget to use. Her toddler’s daycare pickup was in ninety minutes. Her mother’s oncologist had called that morning.

“I have a system,” she told me, and the words came out fast, almost defensive, like she was bracing for me to tell her the system was the problem. “I have a shared calendar with color codes, blue for Mom’s appointments, green for Eli’s, and I check it every morning before I even get out of bed, and I know that sounds insane, I know it does, but if I don’t check it I forget things, I forgot to refill Mom’s blood pressure medication two weeks ago and she went a full day without it and I felt like the worst daughter in America, and I can’t, I can’t do that again, so yes, I have a system, and yes, I check it obsessively, and I don’t know how else to survive this.”

Sitting with Naomi that first session, I felt something I’ve come to recognize in hundreds of driven women in this exact decade of life. Not pity. Not concern exactly. A kind of recognition. The color-coded calendar wasn’t the problem. The calendar was the part of her holding the entire structure up, the way a hand holds a stack of plates it never asked to carry.

What I’ve come to think of as the two-generation vise is what happens when a woman in her early thirties, often just as her career is accelerating and her children are young enough to need her body as much as her attention, discovers her parents are aging faster than she budgeted for emotionally. Clinically, this isn’t simply a scheduling problem. It’s an identity collision. The daughter raised to be capable now has to be capable in two directions at once, and there’s no version of capable that stretches that far without cost.

Naomi’s story is not unusual, though it feels, to the woman living it, unbearably specific. At thirty-three, she’s caring for aging parents while still parenting a toddler who needs her at 2 a.m., and this squeeze creates a particular emotional burden, blending anticipatory grief for a parent who isn’t gone yet with the unglamorous daily mechanics of caregiving. Clinically, I observe that most women in this position carry a specific flavor of guilt, one that has nothing to do with doing a bad job and everything to do with the impossibility of the math. Two people need you at full capacity. You have one body.

I recently read Martin Pinquart, PhD, and Sonja Sorensen, PhD, and the finding that stayed with me for weeks afterward was how consistently gender shapes who absorbs this burden inside a family. Their 2006 meta-analysis, spanning decades of caregiving research, found that daughters carry a heavier psychological load than sons in comparable caregiving roles, not because daughters do more of the logistical labor in every case, but because daughters are more likely to be the ones who feel responsible for the emotional temperature of the whole arrangement. That distinction matters clinically. Naomi wasn’t only managing her mother’s chemotherapy schedule. She was managing her mother’s fear, her father’s silence, her own guilt, and her toddler’s confusion about why Grandma seemed different, all at once, usually before 9 a.m.

For those moving through this difficult terrain, understanding these feelings as patterned rather than personal is a vital first step. I encourage exploring my companion piece on anticipatory grief and the sandwich generation, which goes deeper into the layered grief that arrives years before an actual loss.

What is the sandwich squeeze, clinically speaking?

Here’s the clearest way I’ve found to name what’s happening to a woman like Naomi. The sandwich squeeze at thirty-three refers to the specific pressure of balancing responsibility to aging parents and to young children during the exact decade when a woman’s own career and identity are also under construction. This isn’t the sandwich generation of the popular imagination, the fifty-five-year-old empty nester managing a parent’s decline. This is younger, less financially settled, and often entirely invisible to a workplace that assumes a thirty-three-year-old’s caregiving burden stops at daycare pickup.

The National Alliance for Caregiving has documented that balancing responsibilities across two generations produces significant emotional strain and decreased well-being, and in my caseload that strain shows up first in the body, not the mood. Naomi told me, three sessions in, that she’d started waking at 3:47 a.m. most nights, “for no reason,” her exact words, though there was a reason, and it was that her nervous system had learned her mother’s phone calls sometimes arrived early. Anticipatory grief, the sorrow that precedes a loss rather than following it, often complicates caregiving in exactly this way. It doesn’t wait politely for the funeral. It moves in early and rearranges the furniture of your sleep.

I want to be precise about something here, because I see driven women misdiagnose themselves constantly on this point. Feeling grief for a parent who is still alive is not morbid, and it is not giving up on them. It’s your attachment system doing exactly what it evolved to do: registering that the relationship as you’ve known it is shifting, and starting the slow work of adjustment before the ground fully gives way. This is consistently what I see in women moving through a parent’s chronic illness, often enough that I now ask about sleep disruption specifically in intake, because it usually surfaces well before the woman herself names what’s happening as grief.

For those moving through this difficult terrain, understanding these feelings is a vital first step. I encourage exploring the article on anticipatory grief and the sandwich generation, which offers a fuller map of this layered grief and how to find footing amid competing demands.

There’s a specific version of this I want to name, because I hear it almost word for word from different women in different weeks. It sounds like: “I keep waiting to feel sad, and instead I just feel tired, so maybe I’m not actually grieving.” Grief doesn’t always announce itself as sadness. Sometimes it shows up as irritability at a spouse who did nothing wrong, or a strange flatness during a work meeting that used to interest you, or forgetting your own child’s field trip form because some quieter part of you is bracing for a different kind of paperwork entirely. None of that means you’re grieving incorrectly. There is only what your particular nervous system does with a loss that hasn’t finished happening yet.

Naomi asked me once, almost apologetically, whether it was strange that she’d cried harder over a burned pot roast than over her mother’s last oncology appointment. It wasn’t strange at all. The pot roast was a safe container for a grief that had nowhere else to go that week.

Why the squeeze feels like a nervous-system event

Naomi’s experience as part of the sandwich generation is more than a juggling act. It’s a full-body reaction, and the first time she described it to me, sitting forward with her hands wrapped around a paper coffee cup she never drank from, I recognized the classic signature of a nervous system that had been in low-grade alarm for months without a single moment of full discharge. Clinically, this squeeze isn’t only psychological stress. It triggers the body’s threat-response machinery directly, flooding the system with cortisol and adrenaline that have nowhere useful to go, because the threat isn’t a bear in the woods. The threat is a slow accumulation of unresolved demand.

Here’s what I keep coming back to from my own reading on this. Bessel van der Kolk, MD, psychiatrist and longtime trauma researcher at the Trauma Center in Brookline, Massachusetts, writes about how the body keeps a running, wordless account of chronic threat, one that shows up as tension, digestive trouble, and a startle reflex that never fully resets, long before the conscious mind agrees to call any of it stress. That’s precisely what I watched happen in Naomi over the course of a single autumn. She wasn’t having a breakdown. Her body was accurately reporting that it had been asked to sustain vigilance across two households for longer than any nervous system was built to hold.

The nervous system doesn’t distinguish neatly between categories of demand. A toddler’s tantrum at 6 p.m. and a specialist’s voicemail at 6:05 p.m. register, physiologically, as the same category of alarm. In my practice, I watch this ongoing hypervigilance erode emotional and physical health well before a woman consciously names herself as burned out.

Sandwich Generation, as a term, describes adults whose care responsibilities press from more than one generation at the same time, and I want to be direct about why the label matters clinically: naming the structure of the problem is the first step toward treating the actual nervous system, rather than treating irritability or insomnia as though either were the root cause. For more on how multigenerational caregiving shapes family dynamics more broadly, see my article on what grandparents’ decline teaches your kids.

Guilt is not a care plan

Naomi’s story highlights a trap I watch driven women fall into with almost mechanical predictability: feeling guilty for not doing enough for aging parents while managing a young family. She named it herself, six weeks into our work, sitting on the edge of the couch with her coat still on because she had exactly forty minutes between appointments. “I feel guilty when I’m with Eli because I’m thinking about Mom’s scan results, and I feel guilty when I’m with Mom because I’m thinking about whether Eli’s daycare called, and honestly I feel guilty right now, talking to you, because this is an hour I could be doing literally anything else on my list.” Guilt can feel like motivation. Clinically, I see it more often as a leak in the system, quietly draining the exact resources a person needs for clear decision-making.

From my experience as a therapist, guilt is a signal, not a strategy. It points toward a value, usually something like I want to be a good daughter or I want to be a present mother, but it doesn’t hand you a sustainable plan for honoring that value inside real constraints. The Family Caregiver Alliance has noted that chronic guilt among caregivers is associated with faster burnout and, counterintuitively, a decline in the actual quality of care provided, because a depleted nervous system makes worse decisions under pressure than a resourced one. The National Alliance for Caregiving has separately identified guilt as a factor that measurably increases stress and worsens mental health outcomes among caregivers across long observation windows.

Here’s the reframe I offered Naomi, and it’s the one I offer most women in her position. Guilt tells you what you value. It does not tell you what’s actually possible this week. Those are two different questions, and driven women have a specific talent for treating the first question as though it answers the second. What I’ve come to think of as the guilt-as-compass reframe means using the ache, the specific flavor of guilt that shows up when you’re with Eli but thinking of Mom, as information about what matters to you, and then handing the logistics problem itself to a completely different part of your thinking. Not the part that feels. The part that plans.

I recently read Richard Schwartz, PhD, the psychologist who developed Internal Family Systems therapy, and the piece of his work I return to most often with sandwich-generation clients is his articulation of the internal “manager” part, the part of a person’s internal system that tries to prevent pain by controlling everything in advance. Naomi’s color-coded calendar was her manager, working overtime, trying to prevent the specific catastrophe of forgetting her mother’s medication again. Schwartz’s framework doesn’t ask a client to get rid of that part. It asks her to thank it, and then to notice whether it’s being asked to do a job that’s actually too large for any single part of a person to carry alone.

Rebecca, the hospital pharmacist I’ll introduce more fully further into this piece, described a related but distinct version of guilt when we first met: not the guilt of doing too little, but the guilt of ever wanting anything for herself while her father’s health declined. “I felt guilty for wanting to go to my friend’s wedding,” she told me. “Like wanting a nice weekend meant I didn’t care enough about what’s happening to him.” That’s the same mechanism Naomi lives with, wearing different clothes. The guilt isn’t measuring your actual devotion. It’s measuring an impossible standard that says devotion only counts if it costs you everything.

If you recognize yourself in Naomi’s story, it’s worth naming plainly: the guilt isn’t proof you’re failing. It’s proof you care about two people who both, legitimately, need more than any one person can supply without support. For more on moving through these complicated years, explore my ongoing series on The Everything Years.

What children learn from watching decline

Naomi called me on a Thursday, off-schedule, which she’d never done before. Her six-year-old niece, visiting for the weekend, had asked Naomi’s toddler why Grandma “talks funny now,” and Naomi had frozen in the doorway, dish towel still in her hand, unsure whether to correct the question or answer it. “I didn’t know what to say,” she told me. “I don’t know what he’s supposed to understand at two. I don’t know what I’m supposed to let him see.”

Caring simultaneously for an aging parent and young children puts a woman in the position of narrating decline to an audience too young to have asked for the assignment. Clinically, I observe that children absorb far more than the physical changes in front of them. They internalize the emotional atmosphere of uncertainty that surrounds those changes, often with more accuracy than the adults around them realize. According to Pew Research Center’s 2022 analysis, more than half of Americans in their forties are sandwiched between an aging parent and their own children, and that data point matters here because it means this environment is common enough that most children will, at some point, watch someone they love manage a grandparent’s decline. It’s a near-universal childhood experience hiding inside a topic families rarely discuss directly.

Attachment theory offers a useful anchor here. John Bowlby, MD, the psychiatrist who founded attachment theory, wrote that a secure base gives a child a sense of safety from which to explore the world, including the harder parts of the world, like illness and change. When a parent like Naomi manages the ambiguous, ongoing nature of a parent’s decline (what Pauline Boss, PhD, family therapist and professor emeritus at the University of Minnesota, named ambiguous loss in her decades of work with families facing exactly this kind of unresolved grief), that parent is modeling something important for the watching child: that hard things can be held without collapse. Clinically, I see how children who witness this process can develop real empathy and adaptability. They also need active guidance, not silence, to process what they’re absorbing in a way that doesn’t leave them frightened or confused about what’s allowed to be said out loud.

I told Naomi what I tell most parents facing this: you don’t need a perfect script. You need permission to say true, age-appropriate things out loud, in small doses, more than once. “Grandma’s brain is having a hard time right now, and that’s not something you did, and it’s okay to feel confused about it.” That’s the whole sentence. It doesn’t need to be more sophisticated than that to do its job.

For more on this generational squeeze, see this Pew Research Center piece on Americans in their forties balancing aging parents and children, and my companion article on what your children are absorbing while watching a grandparent’s decline.

Both/And: the survival strategy that’s now costing you

Here’s what I want to name directly, because I watch driven women skip past it in favor of a tidier story about their own failure. The hyper-competence that got Naomi through her mother’s diagnosis, the color-coded calendar, the mental inventory of every medication and every daycare policy, the instinct to solve rather than sit in uncertainty, was a genuinely brilliant adaptation. It kept two households functioning. It kept a toddler fed and a mother’s blood pressure medication refilled on schedule. It was wise, given what she was facing, and it is also, six months in, costing her the exact resource she needs most: a nervous system with any spare capacity left for herself.

This is the both/and I return to again and again in this work. The over-functioning was smart. It is now also unsustainable. Both things are true at the same time, and driven women, in my clinical experience, tend to resist holding both, because it feels dangerously close to admitting the whole structure might fail without the over-functioning.

Naomi put it this way in a session in early December, wrapped in her coat again, the radiator in my office clicking against the cold: “If I stop being the one who tracks everything, who tracks it instead? There’s no one else. I know that sounds dramatic, but I’ve actually thought it through, and there’s no one else.” She wasn’t being dramatic. She was reporting the actual architecture of her family system accurately. And that accuracy is exactly why the both/and matters here: the answer isn’t stop tracking everything. The answer is closer to find where the tracking can be shared, delegated, or simplified, while grieving honestly that some of it can’t be.

I’ve watched this both/and show up almost identically across dozens of clients in Naomi’s exact position. The instinct that built the system deserves real credit. It got her through the worst months. It is also, now, a load-bearing wall that’s starting to crack under weight it was never meant to hold alone for this long. Of course you’re tired. Carrying a structure built for emergency conditions past the point where the emergency has become a chronic condition would exhaust anyone’s nervous system, not because you’re fragile, but because no nervous system is built for indefinite red alert.

The work, practically, looks like this: naming out loud, to a partner, a sibling, a friend, or a therapist, that the system that worked in the acute crisis needs revision for the chronic phase. Not abandonment. Revision. Naomi’s version of this was asking her husband to take over the pharmacy calls entirely, a task that felt small to hand off and turned out to free up nearly an hour of cognitive load a week, an hour she hadn’t realized she was spending until it was gone.

The Systemic Lens: why this falls on women in their thirties specifically

I want to widen the frame here, because Naomi’s story, and the story of the second client I want to introduce you to, aren’t personal failures of time management. They’re patterned. Women in their early thirties are disproportionately the ones absorbing this exact squeeze, and that pattern has structural roots that go well beyond any individual family’s dynamics.

Consider the timeline our culture has built. Careers are expected to accelerate hardest in the decade a woman is also most likely to have young children. That same decade is, statistically, when a woman’s own parents begin entering the years where health complications multiply. These timelines were never coordinated with each other. No one designed them to overlap this precisely, and yet they do, for millions of women, at the exact same age, almost every time. Pan Y, Chen R, and Yang D, in their 2022 systematic review of filial piety and caregiver burden, found that cultural expectations around family obligation intensify this burden specifically for women, who are more often assigned, explicitly or by quiet family consensus, the role of primary emotional and logistical caregiver regardless of their career demands or financial contribution to the household.

This is the mechanism of harm worth naming plainly: it isn’t that any single family is choosing to overload its daughters. It’s that a culture built around the assumption that women will absorb caregiving labor, largely unpaid and largely invisible, keeps producing daughters who feel it would be a moral failure to say no, even when saying yes costs them their sleep, their marriage’s bandwidth, and their own health. Vitaliano PP, Zhang J, and Scanlan JM, in their landmark 2003 meta-analysis, found that chronic caregiving stress is associated with measurable physical health decline, including elevated risk for cardiovascular strain, and that finding lands differently once you understand who’s disproportionately carrying that stress and why.

Let me introduce you to Rebecca, thirty-one, a hospital pharmacist I began seeing in January, because her story shows how differently this same structural pressure lands depending on family culture. Rebecca arrived to our first session straight from a twelve-hour shift, still in scrubs, an insulated lunch bag with a faded Boston Marathon logo sitting on the chair beside her like a third person in the room. It was a Wednesday, unseasonably warm for February, and she kept glancing at her phone, screen up, as though bracing for it to ring.

“My parents came here from Manila in 1987,” she told me, the words tumbling out faster than she seemed to intend. “And in our family, you don’t put a parent in a facility, you just don’t, that’s not a discussion we have, my mother took care of her mother in our living room for six years and I watched her do it and I always knew that would be me someday, I just didn’t think someday would be now, I didn’t think someday would be while I’m also trying to make partner track and my husband and I are trying to have a baby and I genuinely don’t know where any of that fits if my father needs what I think he’s going to need.” She laughed, short and without humor. “I sound like I’m complaining. I’m not complaining. This is just what you do.”

Sitting with Rebecca that afternoon, I felt the particular weight of watching someone describe an obligation she didn’t experience as optional, and didn’t want help reconsidering, only help surviving. That distinction mattered enormously for how I worked with her. Rebecca wasn’t asking me to help her set a boundary with her father. She was asking me to help her find a way to honor a value passed down through three generations of women in her family without her own nervous system giving out first.

What I’ve come to think of as the inherited caregiving script is what Rebecca was living inside: not a choice made freely in the present, but an inheritance, absorbed long before she had any say in it, about what a good daughter does. Pashazade H, Maarefvand M, Abolfathi Momtaz Y, and colleagues, in their 2024 qualitative study of coping strategies among sandwich generation caregivers, documented exactly this dynamic, finding that caregivers embedded in strong filial obligation cultures often reported the least willingness to seek outside support, even when outside support was available and would have measurably reduced their burden. Reading that finding, I thought immediately of Rebecca, and of how much of my work with her wasn’t about changing her values, but about finding small, culturally congruent places where support could enter without her feeling she’d betrayed her mother’s example.

The sensation test matters here, the same as it does with Naomi. This isn’t abstract. It’s Rebecca checking her phone during a work shift because her father might fall. It’s the specific tightness in her jaw when her sister, living three states away, asks “how’s Dad doing” without offering to fly in. It’s her husband’s quiet disappointment on nights she comes home too depleted to talk about starting a family, a conversation that keeps getting postponed by a crisis that isn’t technically an emergency but never fully lets up either. Structural forces don’t live in policy papers. They live in a specific Wednesday, in scrubs, with a lunch bag that has a marathon logo on it because she used to run, before this, when there was time.

Of course this feels unfair. It is, measured honestly, unevenly distributed. Naming that plainly doesn’t excuse you from your family’s needs. It does mean your exhaustion isn’t a personal defect. It’s an accurate reading of a structural weight that has landed, disproportionately and predictably, on women exactly like you and exactly like Rebecca, at exactly this age.

I want to be careful here not to turn a structural observation into a reason for despair. Naming the pattern isn’t the same as declaring it unchangeable. Inside families, inside individual marriages, there is real room to redistribute what can be redistributed and grieve honestly what can’t. That’s what living well inside a flawed system actually looks like: clear eyes about the forces at play, and specific, local moves that make your own week survivable anyway.

How to hold both generations without losing yourself

By March, Naomi had made one change that mattered more than any calendar system: she’d started saying, out loud, to her husband and eventually to her sister, “I can’t be the only person tracking this.” Not as a crisis announcement. As a Tuesday-afternoon sentence, said plainly, the way you’d mention the car needs an oil change. Her sister, it turned out, had been waiting for permission to help and hadn’t known where to start. The pharmacy calls moved to her husband. The insurance paperwork moved to a shared folder her sister could actually access.

None of this resolved the underlying grief of watching her mother decline, and I want to be honest that it wasn’t supposed to. A weekly boundary ritual, one afternoon a week that belongs only to Naomi and her toddler, phone silenced, no calendar checking, didn’t erase the 3:47 a.m. wake-ups entirely. It gave her nervous system one reliable pocket of safety inside an otherwise unpredictable week, and in my clinical experience, that’s often enough to shift a person from crisis-level dysregulation to something closer to sustainable strain. Not painless. Survivable, with room left over for her own life.

Rebecca’s path looked different, because her family’s culture called for a different shape of support. Rather than redistributing tasks away from herself, which her family system wasn’t ready to hold, Rebecca and I worked on building small pockets of nervous-system recovery inside the caregiving itself: fifteen minutes in the hospital parking garage before driving to her father’s, headphones on, nothing required of her. It’s a smaller intervention than Naomi’s, and it needed to be, because it had to fit inside a family structure that wasn’t going to change shape. Both approaches worked because both matched the actual family in front of me, not a generic template for what boundaries are supposed to look like.

If you’re in this decade right now, holding a toddler in one hand and a parent’s diagnosis in the other, here’s what I want you to take from Naomi’s story and Rebecca’s both. You don’t have to choose between being a good daughter and being a present mother to reclaim some version of yourself in the middle of it. Get specific about where the actual pressure points are, and what kind of support your family culture can actually receive, then build one or two concrete changes from there rather than overhauling the whole structure at once.

Naomi called me, unprompted, this spring, months after we’d ended regular sessions, just to tell me her mother had a good scan. “I still have the color-coded calendar,” she said, half laughing. “I don’t think I’ll ever not have it. But my sister has the blue parts now. I just have the green ones.” That’s not resolution in the tidy sense. It’s something more honest than resolution: a system that finally has more than one person holding it up.

I think often about a line I read years ago from Pauline Boss, PhD, the family therapist who coined ambiguous loss, about how families facing unresolved grief need permission to hold both hope and sorrow without resolving either one prematurely. That permission is what I want to leave you with here. You don’t have to resolve the math of two generations needing you at once. You have to build enough structure around the unsolvable parts that your nervous system gets somewhere to land during the parts that are solvable. Naomi’s calendar still exists. Rebecca still checks her phone during shifts. Neither woman arrived at a version of this decade with no cost attached. Both arrived somewhere sturdier than where they started, which is usually the most honest outcome available.

Your struggle, in this specific decade, with this specific math, is legitimate. You’re not imagining how hard this is, and you’re not failing by needing help to carry a load that was never designed for one person to hold alone. If you’d like support building your own version of what Naomi and Rebecca built, individual therapy or executive coaching can offer a structured place to start.

Research & Evidence

The framework in this article is grounded in peer-reviewed research on adult development, attachment, and mental health. Selected references:

• Pinquart M, Sörensen S (2006). Gender differences in caregiver stressors, social resources, and health: an updated meta-analysis. The journals of gerontology. Series B, Psychological sciences and social sciences.
• Vitaliano PP, Zhang J, Scanlan JM (2003). Is caregiving hazardous to one’s physical health? A meta-analysis. Psychological bulletin.
• Pan Y, Chen R, Yang D (2022). The relationship between filial piety and caregiver burden among adult children: A systematic review and meta-analysis. Geriatric nursing (New York, N.Y.).
• Pashazade H, Maarefvand M, Abolfathi Momtaz Y, et al. (2024). Coping strategies of the sandwich generation in the care process: a qualitative study. BMC public health.

Medical Disclaimer