My grandfather was the most capable man I have ever known.
He left home in his late teens to enlist in the Royal Canadian Navy during World War II. He served aboard the HMCS Malpeque, a minesweeper tasked with clearing the English Channel ahead of the D-Day landings. When he returned to civilian life, he built everything that came next with his own two hands.
He worked as a dump truck driver and maintained his truck himself. Later, he bought a farm in the Kawartha Lakes region, just outside Lindsay, Ontario. The original house had one floor and an outhouse. Over the years, he added a second story, built a full bathroom inside, maintained the barn and outbuildings, and took care of the land, which he rented to cattle farmers. He did his own plumbing, electrical work, and carpentry. He made it into a home.
He was also the go-to handyman for our extended family. At their home in Toronto, he helped out a lot. Whenever he came to visit my parents, he would always fix something. A window that stuck. A squeaky hinge. A light that flickered. He never left a house with a problem still in it.
Even as he aged, he stayed active. After he and my grandmother sold the farm and settled in Lindsay, he kept working on their home well into his seventies and eighties. He built a new deck. He lifted and laid heavy flagstone to make walkways around the yard. He installed hardwood floors throughout the house. He did it all with quiet determination and pride.
That is why what happened next was such a shock.
At first it was just a couple of small falls. A bruise here. A stumble there. Then came the big one. He ended up in the hospital, disoriented and unable to keep track of basic routines. When he was discharged, no one called us. He was put in a cab alone and sent home.
He got lost on the way.
It was a gut punch for the whole family. He had been so independent for so long. But now it was clear. The situation was not safe, and it was not sustainable. The distance made it harder. Most of us were in Toronto, two hours away. Lindsay had been a peaceful place to retire, but now it felt impossibly far.
We tried to coordinate support. Neighbours. Friends. Phone calls. Errands. But we could not patch it together fast enough.
Eventually, we made the difficult but necessary decision to move my grandparents back to Toronto. They settled into a smaller unit that was simple, accessible, and safe. There were no stairs. The bathroom had grab bars. The layout made sense. We made sure the lights were bright and the walkways clear.
And something changed.
The falls stopped. His sense of orientation improved. He could still get confused sometimes, but he was not scared. He was not hurt. He was able to enjoy visits with family again. To sit with his grandchildren and great-grandchildren without the weight of danger hanging in the background.
Looking back, I think about what we could have done differently. What supports might have helped earlier. What signs we missed. And now, as I build Good Company, I find myself returning to that experience again and again.
It shapes how I think about this work. Not just as a service, but as a relationship. A partnership. The kind of ally every aging adult and caring family should be able to count on. Not just in a crisis. But before one.
The truth is, you can be incredibly capable and still need help. That is not a failure. That is just life. Aging well is not only about strength. It is also about support, preparation, and connection. And sometimes the most loving thing we can do is to plan ahead. For ourselves. For each other. And for the days when the flagstones start to shift.