Everything I Do, I Do for Her

Caring for my mum, who is living with middle-stage Alzheimer’s, is a journey that is hard to fully understand unless you've experienced it yourself. Some days, it feels like I’m in a world that has turned upside down, a place where familiar things seem strange, where memories fade away like mist, and where my mum, the woman who once guided me through life's challenges, sometimes struggles to hold onto her own memories.

People often ask me, “How do you manage?” or “Aren’t you tired?” Yes, I am tired, deeply tired, in a way that goes beyond what any holiday can fix, but this tiredness feels different. It’s not about frustration or resentment; it’s a labour of love. Every action and choice I make comes from one simple truth: everything I do, I do for her.

I don’t do this for recognition or rewards. I’m not looking for anything material or tangible in return. There’s no paycheck, no medal, and no sense of accomplishment that can truly capture what this experience means. When I help her get dressed, make her tea just the way she likes, or sit with her as she gazes into the distance trying to remember something, it’s all for her. My reward is her comfort, her dignity, and those quiet moments when I see a glimpse of the woman I’ve always known shining through the fog of her illness.

Sometimes, she doesn’t recognise me. Sometimes, she forgets who I am. Yet, I continue to show up. I speak her name, hold her hand, and remind her of the songs she loved, the scents she cherished, and the little things that made her smile. Each small gesture is a way to connect with her, a reminder that she is still loved, still seen, and still valued.

This role has changed me. It has taught me patience I didn’t know I had, resilience I didn’t think I could find, and a depth of empathy I never imagined. I’ve learned to celebrate the small victories, the moments when she remembers my name or when her eyes light up at the sight of a familiar photo. Those moments are priceless, worth more than anything money could buy.

I share this not to seek pity or to boast. I write to honour her and to remind others that caring for someone is an act of love in its purest form. It can be messy, exhausting, and heartbreaking, but it is also sacred, beautiful, and profoundly human.

Everything I do, I do for her, and in caring for her, I find the truest meaning of devotion.