Through My Eyes: A Guide to Loving Someone with Dementia

Introduce yourself every time. Start conversations by gently stating your name (e.g. “Hi Mum, it's Margaret”). Avoid asking “Do you know who I am?” — it can trigger anxiety and confusion.

Step into my world. If my mind is living in a different decade, or if I believe a deceased loved one is still here, don't correct me. Let me find comfort in my current reality.

Avoid arguments. There is no need to debate facts or prove a point. What is true for me right now is my only reality.

Don't take my forgetfulness personally. If I confuse your identity or can't recall your name, remember that my timeline is fractured. It is the condition, not a reflection of my love for you.

Encourage my independence at the table. If using cutlery becomes too difficult, please don't resort to feeding me right away. Offer finger foods instead so I can maintain autonomy for as long as possible.

Validate my emotions. If I am overwhelmed, anxious or down, simply hold my hand and listen. Please don't dismiss my fears or tell me they make no sense.

Speak to me with dignity. I am still an adult with a lifetime of experience. Please do not baby me or use a childish tone.

Keep my passions alive. Help me modify the hobbies I've always loved. Find ways for me to move my body, engage with stories, and stay connected to friends.

Invite me to reminisce. Ask me about my distant past — those older memories are often the clearest and brightest for me.

Look beneath the agitation. If I seem restless or upset, try to figure out the root cause. I might be in pain, uncomfortable, or simply unable to express a basic need.

Follow the Golden Rule. When in doubt, simply treat me with the same respect, patience and kindness you would hope to receive yourself.

Keep snacks within reach. Hunger can quickly turn into frustration, and I might lose the ability to tell you I'm hungry. Having easy snacks around can prevent a lot of distress.

Include me in the room. Never speak about me or my condition as if I am invisible or cannot hear you.

Release the guilt. You cannot do this alone 24/7. If the time comes where you need professional support or a specialised care community, know that you have done your best. Choosing a safe, supportive environment is an act of love.

Come see me. If I move into a care facility, your visits are still incredibly meaningful. Please come by often.

Be patient with my confusion. When I jumble dates, names or places, take a deep breath. I am not doing it on purpose.

Fill my space with music. Keep my favourite songs playing in the background; music has a unique way of reaching the soul when words fail.

Accommodate my habits. If I start wandering or gathering items, don't scold me. Gently help me redirect or reset things when I'm done.

Keep me a part of the family. Don't leave me off the guest list for celebrations or gatherings. I still deserve to be part of the warmth and laughter.

Don't skimp on affection. A warm hug or a gentle squeeze of the hand can communicate love and safety when words aren't enough.

Remember who I am. Beneath the fog of this disease, the person you have always known and loved is still right here.