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Every week, I pour my heart into these words to make your caregiving journey a little lighter and less lonely. Many of you have shared how these stories have brought comfort, perspective, or even a smile on a hard day.

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Caregiver’s Corner: Peace and Presence

Caregivers tend to be people of action: that’s the whole reason why many of us started caring. We saw a need, so we acted. We fix, solve, coordinate, and mastermind. But then, some day, your unstoppable force will run into that proverbial immovable object. Maybe that’s already happened to you.

The moment of helplessness you may feel when that happens can feel like a door slamming in your face, but if we reframe the situation we can actually look at it as an opening to understanding ourselves and our loved ones better.

In dementia care, the instinct to fix often comes from love. But it can also come from our own discomfort with uncertainty, with suffering we can’t control. We want to make it better because seeing our loved one distressed is unbearable.

If we accept that moment for what it is, we might be left with three powerful truths: I don’t know (what to do, how to help, etc.). I can’t fix this. And I’m here.

The power of these statements is in the bare honesty of them.

• You don’t know. Neither do I. Brilliant scientists have devoted their whole careers to dementia, and none of them still really “know.” You won’t always know how to act or what to say. Can you simply say “I don’t know” and be ok with that? When you admit you don’t know, you open the door for learning and become more present with the moment.

• I can’t fix this. In his famous poem, Dylan Thomas begged his father to not “go gentle into that good night.” It was a cry from the heart of a man who saw he couldn’t fix his father’s impending passing, and could not accept that it could not be fixed. I’ve been reading that poem for maybe 35 years now, and my heart breaks every time. What if that narrator accepted that he couldn’t fix it, though? That no one could? Could there be some peace? Remember that acceptance isn’t approval. It’s simply acknowledging what is and remaining present there.

• I’m here. I teach a martial arts class in my spare time, and a pearl of wisdom—I like to think!— that I pass along to students is that consistency is the most important quality in their practice. Not power, flexibility, stamina, timing, speed… What makes a good student more than anything else is consistent attendance. What makes any of us great at anything is just being there, showing up, even when you don’t feel like it. Anyone can show up when they feel like it, but great karate students and caregivers are present regularly and more often than most. (But you need to take a break too!)

You Don’t Have to Have Answers

Caregiving is messy, in so many ways. It’s full of moments where you don’t know what to do, and that’s okay.

You don’t have to have answers. You don’t have to fix things. You just have to show up—tired, uncertain, and loving anyway.

That’s enough. Really, it’s the only thing we can ultimately do. Can you accept that you don’t know and can’t fix things? If you can, then you can truly and deeply spend your time with your loved one. When I was willing to give up my need to fix my mom’s health and (I hate to admit) my ego about being a “dementia expert,” I found myself suddenly more capable of just being with her and really enjoying the time together.

I’ll close with another poem I love, a haiku by Kobayashi Issa:

O snail
climb Mount Fuji,
but slowly, slowly!

Issa, who endured great personal loss, speaks here with tender humor and deep patience. The snail’s impossible task is not dismissed—it is honored. So too, the daily efforts of caregiving, though slow and often unseen, are sacred. This haiku teaches acceptance not as defeat, but as perseverance, moving forward with dignity and care.

Hang in there and stay present, caregiver. You’re doing your best every day, and you’re amazing.