A Reminder to Myself

This is one of those moments. He wants to go home again. I’ve explained. I’ve reassured. I’ve tried to redirect. And still, he walks. Or repeats. Or looks at me like I’m not enough to make it better.

I feel myself tightening — in my jaw, in my chest, in that part of me that wants to scream.

But I breathe.

This is not about reason. This is not about control. This is dementia, pulling him away from the world we once shared — and dragging me with it, without a map.

It is exhausting to keep entering his world. It is draining to keep surrendering my own. But I do it — not because I’m strong, but because I love him.

And when I lose my patience — because I will — I will not shame myself for it. I am allowed to be tired. I am allowed to be human.

Even on the days I snap, Even when I hide in the dark or walk away, I come back. I always come back. And that is love.

So I take a breath. I soften my eyes.

And I remind myself:I don’t have to fix this. I just have to stay present. And remember that I am still here. Still me. Even in the storm.