"The Quiet Between Us" – Living With Mum and the Loneliness That Comes With Love

The house is quiet now. Mum’s asleep on the sofa. It’s strange how loud silence can feel when you’ve spent all day speaking, repeating the same reassurances: “It’s okay, Mum.” “I’m here.” “You’re safe.”

I live with my mum, who’s in the middle stages of Alzheimer’s. Some days, she’s chatty and even laughs at old jokes she’s told me a hundred times. Other days, she looks right through me, her eyes searching for someone she can’t quite find.

And then there are days like today — quiet ones — when I miss her even though she’s sitting right beside me.

Loneliness Has Layers

Before Mum’s diagnosis, loneliness to me meant being alone. Now, it’s more complicated. I’m rarely physically alone — Mum is always here — but I’ve never felt so emotionally isolated. The person who used to be my best friend, my safe place… she’s still here, but she’s slipping further away in small, invisible ways.

People mean well. They ask how she’s doing, but they don’t often ask how I’m doing. And when they do, it’s hard to answer honestly without sounding ungrateful or defeated.

Loneliness as a carer isn’t just about missing company — it’s about missing connection. It’s about sitting beside the person you love most and realising that your conversations have turned into echoes of what they once were.

Finding Small Ways to Cope

I’ve had to learn how to fill the quiet. Some things help:

• Music: Mum still responds to songs from her younger days. We dance around the kitchen sometimes — her smile still lights up the room. Those moments make the loneliness fade for a while.

• Writing: That’s partly why I started this blog. Putting my thoughts into words feels like breathing out after holding it all in too long.

• Routine: Alzheimer’s brings unpredictability, but structure helps. Snacks at 10, lunch at 1, our walk around the village in the afternoon. Familiarity keeps both of us grounded.

• Letting people in: I’ve learned that loneliness shrinks when I stop pretending I’m coping perfectly.

  
  

The Love That Remains

Even in the loneliest moments, love still lives here. It shows up in the way Mum holds my hand when she’s scared, or how she sometimes whispers “thank you.” It’s quieter now, but it’s there.

Caring for someone with Alzheimer’s is a kind of heartbreak that happens in slow motion. But it’s also an act of love that teaches you what it means to stay — even when staying hurts.

To Anyone Who Feels Alone Right Now

If you’re reading this in the middle of your own quiet day, wondering if anyone understands — I do. You’re not invisible. You’re doing something incredibly hard, and even if it doesn’t feel like it, you’re doing it beautifully.

We may be lonely, but we are not alone.