Helping our parents navigate apps, online forms and scam alerts shouldn’t be seen as a chore, but as an act of love.

Every time a new scam alert pops up, I forward it to my parents.

My mum usually replies right away. She sends me a thumbs-up and returns to whatever freelance project she’s juggling that week. My dad reacts differently. He reads my text slowly, thinks it through, and then asks me to look at messages he’s received that may be suspicious.

These little exchanges have quietly become part of our family routine. Scam alerts are now discussed during dinner conversations and weekend check-ins.

When I was young, my parents kept me safe in the physical world: “Don’t talk to strangers. Look both ways. Stay where we can see you.” 

Now, the roles are reversed. There are new risks online. I remind my parents to check caller IDs, slow down before tapping anything suspicious, and treat urgency as a red flag.

A NEW FORM OF FILIAL PIETY

I’ve started to think of digital caregiving as a new form of filial piety. Traditionally, filial piety meant obeying parents, supporting them financially and visiting them regularly.

In a digital-first world, the responsibilities have expanded. Parents also need guidance navigating apps, portals and systems that weren’t designed with them in mind. Adult children now manage online forms, monitor scam alerts, book appointments and troubleshoot logins.

Among my friends, similar patterns emerge. One friend created a family chat called “Suspicious Things We Do Not Click” after her aunt repeatedly forwarded phishing-laden promotions.

There isn’t a single “type” of digitally capable parent. Some seniors are savvy, while some are cautious. Another friend’s mother flies through online medical bookings, comparing options and teaching her siblings to use HealthHub. His father prefers checking with someone else before confirming anything.

The label “digital caregiving” gives shape to the emotional effort adult children put in for their parents – the patience, the explanations, the reassurance. In my experience, it’s less about fixing things than being someone they can approach without feeling small.

When my parents ask me for tech-related support, I used to treat it like a task to clear. Now, I narrate my steps, hand the device back and let them try. When impatience bubbles up, I remind myself that they once taught me to navigate a world far more confusing than any app update.

Some weeks, our “tech support” sessions happen naturally over lunch. Fifteen or 20 minutes is usually enough. We focus on small tasks: exploring the latest AI tools, poking around social media apps or trying out a feature they noticed but never tapped.

We keep it slow because urgency flusters everyone. Simple encouragements like “You got it!” lift the session.

Over time, the consistency of our tech check-ins has built my parents’ confidence. And for me, troubleshooting no longer feels like work but a path to shared discovery.

MOMENTS OF TRUST

It’s easy to assume our parents simply don’t want to try, or are content sticking to familiar routines. 

My dad resisted going digital for years. At first, I thought it was stubbornness. Over time, I realised it was complicated. After a lifetime of being the one who knew what to do, asking for help can feel embarrassing. Even small requests require a shift in pride and comfort, and watching him navigate these moments has taught me empathy.

These requests are moments of trust. For adult children, rather than interruptions, they are chances to guide and reassure our parents. Community programmes that teach seniors digital skills succeed not because of their content, but because the environment feels safe: No one is singled out, mistakes are normal and curiosity is encouraged.

Families can do the same. A regular tech check-in lightens the load for caregivers and gives older adults a safe space to ask “dumb” questions. Patient explanations and slow learning become routine care rather than crisis management.

Learning is lifelong and uneven. Helping my parents has made me aware of how disorienting navigating new technology can be, and how much trust is packed into a simple, “Can you help me with this?” Asking for help is brave. Offering it takes patience, a little humour, and resisting the urge to say, “Just do what I did.”

After all, technology will always move faster than people. One day, the roles will flip, and we’ll probably be the ones awkwardly asking our kids to show us how to use neural wallets or whatever the next “must-know” tech is.

Until then, we can approach digital caregiving not as a chore, but as an act of love – slow, patient, and profoundly human.