Letting Go of the Need for Everyone to Understand

When I first became Mum’s carer, I spent so much energy trying to explain what it was like — the exhaustion, the fear, the constant feeling of grief. I thought if my family and friends truly understood, they’d somehow ease the weight of it. But over time, I’ve realised something hard and strangely freeing: not everyone can understand, and that’s okay.

When Mum was first diagnosed with Alzheimer's. The phone rang often, the messages poured in. But as the months turned into years, life went back to normal — for everyone else. For me, normal became repeating the same conversations, soothing her confusion, and quietly mourning the woman she used to be.

I’d try to explain the loneliness that comes with watching your own mum fade before your eyes, or the way guilt and love can exist together. Sometimes people would nod sympathetically, but their lives moved on when the conversation ended. Mine didn’t.

I used to feel angry about that. Angry that the world carried on as though mine hadn’t been turned upside down. But slowly, I’ve realised that understanding isn’t something you can demand from others. Unless you’ve lived it — the 3 a.m. restlessness, the blank look from someone who once knew you better than anyone — it’s impossible to fully grasp.

Letting go of the need for others to understand hasn’t been easy, but it’s been freeing. I’ve learned to take comfort in the small moments — a neighbour who sits and listens over a cup of coffee, a nurse who really listens and understands my concerns, or a moment of laughter with Mum that feels like a small victory.

Caring for someone with dementia is a journey that reshapes you. It strips away all front and pride. It teaches you to find peace not in being seen, but in knowing that what you’re doing matters, even if no one else truly gets it.

These days, I don’t waste energy trying to explain. I simply love Mum the best I can, in the moments we still have. That’s enough.