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A New Year as a Daughter Caring for a Parent with Alzheimer's

  • LJM
  • Dec 31, 2025
  • 2 min read

The new year arrives quietly in our house. There’s no champagne countdown, no big plans scribbled into fresh diaries. Instead, there’s medication to organise, routines to protect, and the hope that tonight will be a “good night” rather than a confusing one.


For my mum, the new year doesn’t mean anything at all. January looks exactly like December. The calendar turning doesn’t register when dementia has already loosened its grip on time, and yet—for me—it still carries weight.


As an adult daughter carer, the new year is less about new beginnings and more about continuing. Continuing to show up. Continuing to explain things gently. Continuing to grieve someone who is still here.


There’s pressure everywhere at this time of year—set goals, make changes, reinvent yourself. But dementia care teaches you a different rhythm. Some years, the bravest thing you can do is stand still and endure.


This year, I’m not making resolutions. Instead, I’m making allowances.

Allowance for the exhaustion that lingers even after sleep. Allowance for the sadness that arrives without warning. Allowance for the love that still exists, even when recognition fades.


I’m learning that progress doesn’t look like improvement anymore. It looks like adaptation. It looks like finding small pockets of peace in days that can feel relentlessly heavy. It looks like forgiving myself when patience runs thin.


As her daughter, the hardest part is carrying memories my mum no longer holds. I remember who she was, who she raised me to be, and I bring that into the new year even if she can’t.


So if you’re entering this new year as a family dementia carer—especially as a daughter—know this: You don’t need a better version of yourself. You don’t need grand plans or shiny goals. You are already doing something incredibly hard.


This year, my only hope is simple: That there will be moments of calm. That love will still find its way through the confusion. And that I will remember—I am still her daughter, not just her carer, and for now, that is enough.

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