Some losses happen all at once. Others happen slowly, quietly, and in ways that can be difficult to recognize until you realize that the person you knew is changing right in front of you. For my family, dementia was that kind of loss. Watching someone I loved experience dementia changed the way I understand memory, aging, family, and even what it means to truly know another person.
When I was younger, I did not understand dementia. As a child, I understood that something was wrong, but I did not have the knowledge or maturity to understand what was happening inside my grandmother’s mind. I could not understand why someone who had once been so familiar could begin forgetting things, repeating herself, becoming confused, or struggling to recognize pieces of the life she had lived. At that age, I saw the changes, but I did not understand the disease behind them.
As I grew older, my understanding changed. My grandmother eventually lost her battle with dementia, and her death affected my family deeply. But what stayed with me was not only the sadness of losing her. It was the realization that dementia had taken pieces of her long before she physically left us. It made me think about how much of our identity is connected to our memories. Our experiences, relationships, childhoods, accomplishments, and even the people we love become part of the story we tell ourselves about who we are. Dementia can slowly interfere with that story.
That realization was painful for me because I began thinking about all the things my grandmother had experienced that I could no longer ask her about. There were memories I would never hear directly from her. Stories from her life that might have been forgotten. Questions I never knew to ask when I had the opportunity. As a child, I assumed there would always be more time to understand her. Dementia taught me that time is not something we should take for granted.
Dementia can change the way a person communicates and behaves. Someone may become frustrated because they cannot remember something they once knew. They may ask the same question repeatedly. They may become confused about where they are or who someone is. From the outside, these behaviors can sometimes be mistaken for stubbornness, rudeness, or simply “getting old.”
I have learned that caring for someone means meeting them where they are, rather than demanding that they return to where they used to be. When someone is losing pieces of their memory, arguing with them or becoming angry does not restore what was lost. Compassion becomes more important than being right. Sometimes the most meaningful thing you can give another person is simply your presence.
Dementia also changed the way I think about my own family. Families often communicate through shared memories. We say things like, “Remember when we did this?” or “Do you remember that story?” Those memories connect generations. They become part of our family identity. When dementia begins affecting one person, it can feel as though part of the family’s history is disappearing with them.
That experience made me appreciate the importance of preserving memories while we have the opportunity. Photographs, stories, traditions, conversations, letters, and even ordinary moments can become incredibly valuable. We often believe the important moments will be the major milestones, but sometimes it is the small things that we miss most—the sound of someone’s voice, a familiar laugh, a favorite story, or the way they made you feel when you were around them.
My grandmother’s experience also changed the way I think about the brain. When I was younger, I did not understand how extraordinary the human brain is. I took memory for granted because I assumed remembering was simply something the brain did automatically. Dementia showed me that memory is far more complicated.
The brain allows us to recognize people, communicate, learn, make decisions, experience emotions, and build relationships. It allows us to carry our past into the present. When diseases such as dementia interfere with those abilities, the effects reach far beyond forgetting someone’s name or misplacing an object. They can affect independence, personality, communication, relationships, and a person’s sense of identity.
I want to understand the human mind more deeply. I want to understand why we think, remember, feel, and behave the way we do. I want to learn about the neurological and psychological processes behind memory and what happens when those processes are disrupted by disease. Most importantly, I want to understand people rather than simply their diagnoses.
My grandmother’s experience gave me a personal reason to care about this subject. I do not want my education to be just about earning a degree. I want it to help me become someone who can make a difference in the lives of people who are struggling.
A person with dementia is still a mother, father, grandmother, grandfather, spouse, friend, or loved one. They still deserve to be spoken to with respect. They still deserve affection. They still deserve to participate in life to the greatest extent possible. Their memories may change, but their value does not.
That may be one of the most important lessons I have learned.
My family experienced the helplessness that can come with watching someone you love change because of a disease you cannot simply fix. There is a unique kind of grief involved in dementia because you can mourn someone while they are still physically present. You can miss the person they used to be while still loving the person they are becoming. That complexity is difficult to explain unless you have experienced it.
It taught me that grief is not always a single moment. Sometimes grief is a process that begins long before a person’s death. Sometimes it is remembering something they used to do and realizing they cannot do it anymore. Sometimes it is hearing a story and wishing they were still here to tell it. Sometimes it is simply wishing you had understood more when you had the chance.
Dementia made me more conscious of the importance of asking questions, listening to stories, taking photographs, and spending time with family. It reminded me that ordinary days are still part of our lives, and someday those ordinary days may become the memories we treasure most.
My grandmother’s battle with dementia is something I wish I could have understood better when I was younger. I wish I had possessed the knowledge to understand that the changes I was seeing were not her choosing to be different. She was fighting a disease that was changing her brain. If I had understood that then, perhaps I would have viewed some moments differently.
But I cannot go back and change what I knew as a child.
What I can do is allow what I learned to influence who I become.
That is why education matters so much to me. Returning to college is not simply about obtaining a credential. It is about turning my experiences into knowledge and using that knowledge to help others. My grandmother’s experience with dementia gave me questions I did not have answers to when I was young. Now I want to pursue the education necessary to begin answering them.
I want to learn about the brain because someone I loved showed me how precious it is.
I want to study psychology because I have seen how deeply mental and neurological conditions can affect individuals and entire families.
And I want to help people because I understand what it feels like to watch someone struggle and wish you could do more.
My grandmother cannot tell me what she experienced. I cannot go back and ask her what she remembered, what she feared, or what she understood as dementia changed her life. But I can carry her memory forward through what I choose to learn and what I eventually choose to do with that knowledge.
Dementia took memories from my grandmother, but it also gave me something I will carry for the rest of my life: a deeper appreciation for the human mind and for the people who depend on us to care for them when they are vulnerable.
I have learned that memory is precious. I have learned that compassion matters more than frustration. I have learned that a person’s diagnosis does not define their worth. I have learned that families can experience tremendous pain while also discovering incredible strength. And most importantly, I have learned that sometimes our greatest motivation comes from the people we have lost.
My grandmother’s life did not end with dementia. Her story continues through the people who loved her, the memories we still carry, and the lessons she unknowingly taught us.
I cannot change what dementia took from her or from my family. But I can take what I learned from that experience and use it to become more compassionate, more knowledgeable, and more committed to helping others.