When old age is left alone

Joan Ubide
Jan 17
6 min read

There was an old assumption that quietly held Spanish society together: that family, imperfect, sometimes strained, but present, was the last safety net. When work collapsed, when illness arrived, when life narrowed, there was usually someone: a daughter, a sibling, a neighbour, a cousin. That web, which was never a luxury but a habit, is fraying in plain sight. And in the tearing of it, old age becomes the most fragile thread.

Loneliness among older people is not just a feeling. It is a social symptom. It tells us the everyday model of informal care, the visits, the shared routines, the unplanned check-ins, has weakened at exactly the moment it is most needed. In an ageing country shaped by unequal work histories, expensive housing, emptied villages and fast-moving cities, the problem is no longer “being alone” in theory. The problem is being alone when the body begins to fail, when mobility shrinks, and when every basic task costs more than it used to.

When the body shrinks, life shrinks with it

Dependency rarely begins with a single dramatic event. It starts with small warnings: a knee that makes stairs feel like a cliff, dizziness that turns a shower into a hazard, a hand that no longer grips a button, fatigue that transforms a simple shop into an expedition. Mobility difficulties are not a footnote; they are the line between independence and confinement.

If I have someone nearby, those limits can be softened by practical help: carrying bags, cooking a meal, accompanying a medical appointment, checking a bill. If I do not, I am exposed to a chain of problems that feed each other.

The home becomes untidy because cleaning hurts. Food quality drops because cooking demands energy. Medication becomes confusing because dosages and calendars are hard to manage. Health declines because I avoid going out “in case I fall”. Social life fades because the world becomes physically unreachable.

And when physical access becomes difficult, a second wall appears: administrative and digital access.

The people who fall outside the system

Spain has support systems, health services, social care, dependency support, but access is not always real. Too often it depends on something the state should never take for granted: having someone who can fill in forms, chase appointments, travel with you, insist on your behalf, and simply keep you steady.

For an older person living alone, asking for help can mean facing forms, waiting lists, travel, certificates, digital keys and a bureaucratic logic designed for those with time, stamina and a helper at their shoulder. The cruelty is obvious: those who most need support are often those least able to obtain it.

Then there is the digital divide. When booking a medical appointment, speaking to a bank, managing utilities or applying for a benefit becomes “an app” or “a code”, a portion of the population is automatically pushed to the roadside. And that roadside is not metaphorical: it is failing to claim a right, failing to compare tariffs, failing to understand a contract, failing to defend oneself from abuse.

At this point, poverty is not only lack of money. It is lack of tools. It is lack of support. It is lack of presence.

Money: the arithmetic of vulnerability

I need to say it plainly: old age is unequal. Not all retirements are the same, and the margin of safety depends on work history, health, gender, where you live and, increasingly, housing costs.

Recent figures show a country with improvements in averages, but persistent pockets of fragility.

In 2024, the share of people at risk of poverty or social exclusion (AROPE) stood at 25.8%. Among those aged 65 and over it was 19.5%, roughly one in five older people still at risk, even with pensions as the backbone of income. At the same time, 8.3% of the population experienced severe material and social deprivation, and 9.1% reported reaching the end of the month with “great difficulty”. These are not abstract percentages: they are the heater switched off, the fruit bought less often, the glasses postponed, the dentist abandoned.

On income, Spain’s average income per person was reported at €14,807 (2023 figure). But averages smooth the edges. If I want to understand the most marginalised, I have to look at thresholds and minimum benefits.

In 2024, the annual at-risk-of-poverty threshold for a one-person household was €11,584 (and €13,383 when imputed rent is included). Against that yardstick, a minimum pension can sit dangerously close when living costs rise. And below that are those relying on even lower support: in 2026, the annual non-contributory pension was set at €8,803. It is hard to soften what that means. It often falls beneath the poverty threshold itself, and it does so at an age when costs linked to health, energy and practical support tend to increase.

Meanwhile, the system also shows the other extreme: Spain’s maximum public pension in 2026 was set at €3,359 per month (€47,034 per year). That is not a criticism of the person who receives it, but it is a reminder that there is not one Spanish old age. There are retirements with room to breathe, and retirements lived on the edge.

In between sits a majority reality that is not comfortable either: in December 2025, the average retirement pension in Spain was around €1,318 per month. In many households, that income becomes the main pillar, sometimes even shared with unemployed relatives or low wages. In practice, the pension has also acted as a social shock absorber for other generations. But when it is combined with rent, medication, unmet dependency needs, or loneliness without support, the shock absorber becomes thin.

Adopta Un Abuelo: when community reappears

In this landscape, initiatives such as Adopta Un Abuelo do not replace the state or the family, but they do point in a direction: rebuilding bonds where they have broken, and doing it with continuity. Their basic idea is simple and, precisely because of that, powerful: this is not about “helping once”, but about accompanying someone for real, through a sustained relationship.

What matters is not only volunteering, but structure. Technology, used well, can be a bridge: matching people by interests, facilitating meetings, supporting contact. The mix of in-person and remote companionship fits modern reality: there are older people with limited mobility and young volunteers who live far away; there are care homes, but also private homes; there are quiet forms of loneliness that do not show until someone calls.

The organisation itself highlights a hard truth: millions of people live alone and the digital divide affects a large share of older adults. Against that backdrop, their proposal rests on something that cannot be automated: conversation, listening, the simple habit of showing up.

There is a second value, less often discussed but crucial: reciprocity. Intergenerational connection does not turn an older person into a “passive recipient”. It restores them to the place they always held in societies that worked better: a place of memory, judgement, story and experience. The person who accompanies does not only give; they receive. And that logic, human exchange, is the opposite of cold assistance.

A global glance: this is not only Spain

Spain is not alone. Across OECD countries, about 14.8% of people aged 65 and over live in relative income poverty. Worldwide, while most people above retirement age receive some form of pension, more than 165 million receive none at all. Put simply: ageing is accelerating everywhere, but care and protection systems are not growing at the same pace or with the same fairness.

Loneliness also collides with other modern forces: internal and international migration, families scattered across borders, insecure work that weakens future contributions, housing crises, and a digital transition that, when imposed without alternatives, leaves behind those who most need simple, human access.

An uncomfortable, necessary conclusion

A society is revealed by how it treats older people when they can no longer “keep up”. Today, too many older people are not neglected because individuals lack goodwill, but because structural changes have piled up: less family availability, more paperwork, higher costs, deeper isolation, more one-person households.

To recover a tradition of care does not mean returning to the past exactly as it was. It means rescuing what worked best: shared responsibility, neighbourhood, presence, respect, and combining it with modern tools that act as bridges rather than barriers.

Adopta Un Abuelo is a visible example of that blend: volunteering, method, technology and an old truth that should never have been lost, that no one should have to grow old without someone who looks them in the eye and calls them by their name.