Avoid Caretaking What is Left of Your Life

A SCARS Institute Personal Insight

I was recently scrolling through YouTube when I came across something genuinely unexpected. I discovered a new album by ABBA, released more than forty years after they stopped recording, performing, and being who the world once knew them to be, as ABBA. Of course, during the 1980s, the members went their separate ways and created solo albums, and even a progressive rock opera (called “Chess” – 1 – 2 – 3), but the age of ABBA was over.

Before listening to the new album, I went back and revisited their older music from the late 1970s and early 1980s. Much of it was deeply tied to the period in which I lived my early adult life.

That era was defined by fear. The Cold War loomed over everything. Tensions between the United States and the Soviet Union were near their peak, and in 1983 humanity came within minutes of nuclear war. Those songs were not written in a vacuum. They existed in a world where the future felt fragile, uncertain, and constantly under threat. A world that needed their optimism and clarity.

What surprised me was how well those songs had aged. The melodies, emotions, rhythms, and messages still hold meaning today. They did not endure simply because they were part of my personal history, but because they were genuinely brilliant. This is true of many artists from that period. The Beatles, Pink Floyd, Genesis, Alan Parsons, and others created work in their prime that continues to resonate decades later. Like Beethoven or Mozart in their own era, the twentieth century produced an enormous amount of disposable music, but it also produced work that was substantive, lasting, and culturally transformative. Much of it will likely be listened to for generations, perhaps even centuries.

After immersing myself again in ABBA’s earlier music, I turned to their new album, Voyage. As I listened, something profound struck me.

It is important to understand who ABBA are now. The four members are in their late seventies and eighties. They are elderly. They are grandparents. They are no longer the people who once sang with piss and vinegar, about love and lust, heartbreak, desire, and longing while traveling the world and shaping global culture. These are people in the twilight of their lives. One of the songs asks a quiet, vulnerable question. “Do we still have it in us?”

As I continued listening, I realized that the songs felt smaller. Not shorter, but smaller in scope. One song reflects on watching a bumblebee moving through a garden. When compared to earlier works like “Chiquitita” or other expansive songs from their prime, these new pieces are far more intimate and narrowly focused. This is not a criticism. It is an observation.

The shift reflects the artists themselves. Over time, worldviews narrow. Perspectives contract. Lives become more contained. The focus turns inward. Memory grows heavier. The future feels shorter. This album feels like an attempt to recapture something that cannot truly be recaptured. It carries both pride and loss. It is shaped by looking back rather than reaching forward.

There are artists who have managed to preserve their creative fire as they age, not by clinging to the past, but by transforming how that fire is expressed. Some channel their creativity into mentoring others or opening doors for new voices. David Gilmour (of Pink Floyd) continues to perform and record, even collaborating with his granddaughter, while his artistic depth remains intact. The recent Beatles release “Now and Then”, completed by Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr using archival recordings of John Lennon and George Harrison, was not an act of nostalgia. It was a brilliant deliberate closing statement. Their talent had not diminished, but there was wisdom in recognizing that it was time to place a period at the end of the sentence.

As people age, some carry the fire that once fueled their creativity, curiosity, and search for meaning. That fire keeps them connected to both the past and the present. Others slowly let go of their earlier identities and move into a caretaker mode of living. Life becomes less about contributing or creating and more about avoiding disruption and finishing out one’s days in relative calm.

This idea of simply finishing out life is something I find myself reflecting on more often than I once did.

Recently, I had a serious brush with death caused by something as seemingly ordinary as the flu. This strain was brutal, and it could have taken my life. During recovery, I had time to reflect on how close I had come to drifting into that caretaker mode. There was a part of me that wanted nothing more than peace, quiet, and an absence of conflict. Yet another part of me knew I was not ready to let go of what still drives me.

That period of recovery forced me to focus on what is fundamentally important. What surprised me was how personal those priorities are. What matters deeply to one person may hold little meaning for another.

After trauma, especially profound trauma, it is easy to retreat. Many people fall into caretaker mode not because they are old, but because they are wounded. Life becomes about survival rather than engagement. Without a spark, without a drive to contribute or create, existence narrows. Time passes. The game winds down. This can happen at any age.

In my work exploring the lived experience of scam victims and the psychology of those who perpetrate harm, I am driven primarily by a need to understand. That need may be one of the defining traits of a polymath. Over more than a decade, I, and my cohorts at the SCARS Institute have helped educate millions of scam victims worldwide. We have built and shared an extensive body of knowledge freely.

Ironically, the very trauma we address often prevents some people from engaging with the resources that could help them most. Trauma fuels negativity, resistance, avoidance, anger, and rage. Some turn away from help precisely because they need it. Yet the work continues, in the hope that even those who resist today may one day find their way back to the path of recovery.

When I look toward the future, I am reminded of a Viking prayer that speaks to lineage, continuity, and belonging.

“Lo, there do I see my father. Lo, there do I see my mother, and my sisters, and my brothers. Lo, there do I see the line of my people, back to the beginning. Lo, they do call to me. They bid me take my place among them, in the halls of Valhalla, where the brave may live forever!”

It reflects the idea of understanding where one comes from, acknowledging loss, regret, and trauma, while still maintaining a thread that connects past, present, and future. The message is not about surrendering to the end, but about recognizing that purpose can persist until the final moment.

Aging is not about giving up. It is not about retreating entirely into caretaker mode. At the same time, it is not about clinging to the battles of youth or fighting wars that no longer make sense. With age should come wisdom, but wisdom is not a passive gift. It is something that is built, refined, and offered freely to others.

True wisdom does not demand payment. For those who receive it, wisdom arrives as insight, perspective, and understanding. Each person’s wisdom is shaped by a unique life, yet beneath those differences lies a shared humanity. When wisdom is honest, it speaks to something universal.

For some, peace comes from disengaging from the world. For others, disengagement continues to bring grief, unresolved trauma, shame, and regret. Wisdom includes knowing how to let go of regret while still doing what matters. Meaning is not defined by celebrities or cultural trends. Meaning is found in what contributes to ourselves, our family, our community, and humanity.

No one can save another person. Each individual retains autonomy and agency, whether they use it or not. What can be done is guidance. A path can be illuminated. A way home can be shown. Suffering will always exist. More suffering lies ahead for all of us in some form. What gives suffering meaning is the ability to return to the path again and again, no matter how far one strays.

Listening to ABBA’s older music alongside their new album revealed something unexpected. While the newer songs are smaller and more intimate, they still represent a return to the path. The road is rough when one returns, but it is smoothed by walking it. They are no longer who they once were. Neither are we.

Perhaps the task is not to try to become who we used to be, but to become who we are now, and maybe who we still hope to be, without being overly burdened by who we were long ago.

I hope this makes sense.

Prof. Tim McGuinness, Ph.D.
January 2026

ABBA Channel on YouTube – old and new: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCYPs4y5esNqx6ax1CxZws6Q

The Beatles – Now And Then: https://youtu.be/Opxhh9Oh3rg?si=GIXaJvf7q1OQTQVV