The Price of Consistency

There’s a role no one prepares you for, the one where you become the consistent one.

The steady voice. The repeated reminder. The safe place. The memory holder.

As an adult daughter caring full time for my mum with Alzheimer’s, consistency becomes your identity. Not because you chose it, but because someone has to.

And that someone is you.

Alzheimer’s doesn’t just steal memories. It quietly rearranges the family structure.

Your mum, the woman who once reminded you to take your coat, who knew where everything was, who fixed things before you even noticed they were broken, now looks to you for answers.“What day is it?”'What time is it?'“Where’s Mummy?”“Are you going out?”

And you answer. Again. And again. And again. Being the consistent one means your response doesn’t change, even when your heart breaks a little each time.

Consistency is exhausting. It’s:

• Keeping routines rigid because routine is safety.

• Monitoring moods like a weather forecast.

• Repeating explanations with the same tone, even when you’re exhausted.

• Sleeping lightly because nights are unpredictable.

• Being the emotional regulator when confusion turns to fear.

  
  

People often say, “You’re amazing,” or “I don’t know how you do it.”

The truth? You don’t always know either. You just do the next thing, and then the next.

One of the hardest realities is ambiguous grief, mourning someone who is physically present but gradually changing. There are flashes of her. Moments of clarity. A shared joke. A familiar look, and then it’s gone again.

You learn to celebrate seconds. To lower expectations. To hold gratitude and grief in the same breath. No one tells you that being consistent also means being the keeper of shared memories. You remember the stories she no longer can. You carry the history of your family alone sometimes. That weight is invisible.

When you’re the consistent one, others often step back.

You’re “so good at it.”“You’ve got a system.”“She seems calmer with you.” And maybe she is.

But that can mean:

• Fewer breaks.

• Less help.

• Your life quietly shrinking around caring.

  
  

Friendships change. Social lives fade. Career plans pause. Your world becomes medical appointments, medication charts, and safety-proofing the house, and you miss being just a daughter.

But here’s the reality no one says loudly enough:

Feeling overwhelmed does not mean you love her less. Wanting space does not make you selfish. Being tired does not make you ungrateful. It makes you human.

Somewhere in this journey, you become stronger. Not in a shiny, inspirational-quote way.

But in the quiet resilience of:

• Learning medical language.

• Advocating in appointments.

• Navigating systems.

• Managing finances.

• Making impossible decisions.

You become her anchor, and anchors are heavy.

Amid the repetition and exhaustion, there are moments that feel special.

A squeeze of your hand. A “thank you” she may not remember saying. A smile that looks like it did years ago. Those moments are oxygen. They don’t erase the hardship. But they remind you why you show up every day.

It means:

• You are the constant in her changing world.

• You absorb the fear so she feels less of it.

• You carry memories when she cannot.

• You choose patience more times than you thought possible.

It also means you deserve:

• Support.

• Rest.

• Recognition.

• Space to be more than a carer.

If you are the consistent one: You are not alone in the exhaustion. You are not weak for struggling. You are not wrong for grieving. You are doing something profoundly difficult and deeply loving, and even if she cannot always say it clearly anymore, your consistency is safety. Your presence is comfort.Your love still reaches her. Even on the days it feels invisible.