Caring for a loved one with a serious medical condition is hard. Caring for a loved one with dementia is something else entirely. Unless you’ve walked in a caregiver’s shoes, you can't fully understand the heartbreak, the exhaustion, or the emotional layers that come with being the primary support for someone slowly slipping away.
I know this intimately. I was that daughter. The full-time caregiver. The mother of four—one still in diapers—trying to hold everything together while watching my own mother change in front of me.

This is a reflection I began while my mother was still living with us, and now, I share it again in her memory. On this anniversary of her passing, I’m honoring not just who she was, but everything we lived through together during her illness. My mother had Frontal Temporal Degenerative Dementia, a particularly aggressive and personality-altering form of cognitive decline. It’s not just memory loss. It’s a complete rewriting of who your loved one is.

Truth One:I didn’t always want to do this.
I was angry. Tired. Emotionally divided. Raising four small kids while caring for a declining parent stretched me to the edge. I constantly questioned myself: Am I being a good mom? A good daughter? A good person?

Truth Two:Placing your parent in long-term care is not a betrayal.
I’ve learned that honoring your parent sometimes means making the hardest decisions—not out of convenience, but out of love. My mother deserved safety, structure, and skilled support. Letting go of being her daily caregiver didn’t mean I stopped being her daughter. It meant I stepped into a different kind of role—one that still held love, but also held boundaries.

Truth Three:Even with all the education and coping tools, I still hit my breaking point.
There was a moment—a true collapse—when I ended up in the ER with a nervous breakdown. Between motherhood, internship, and caregiving, I broke under the weight. And I say this not with shame, but with clarity: even caregivers need care.

Truth Four:She wasn’t “still in there.”
One of the most painful things people say about dementia is, “Your mom is still in there somewhere.” But she wasn’t. Not in the way I remembered her. The woman I could talk to, laugh with, share stories with—she was already gone, long before her body gave out. It’s okay to say that. It’s okay to grieve the living. Dementia doesn’t steal in silence; it rewrites your parent while you watch.

Truth Five:I finally learned to say out loud, “I’m not okay.”
I didn’t enjoy this. I didn’t want this. But I did it. And I know that honesty—raw, unfiltered honesty—is what saved me. I stopped pretending I could handle it all. I started naming what I felt: grief, guilt, rage, loneliness, fear.

I remember when a friend gently asked, “Are you worried you won’t visit your mom once she’s in the nursing home?” And the honest answer was yes. Not because I didn’t care, but because seeing her decline hurt so deeply, and because I was so stretched, so worn, I could barely keep up with my own life.
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To the adult child who hasn’t visited their parent in a while: I see you.
To the caregiver crying in the car after each visit: I see you.
To the person who knows their parent’s body is alive, but their essence is gone: I see you.

In MemoriamTo my mother,
On the anniversary of your passing, I remember the fierce woman you were before dementia took hold—and I honor the version of you I cared for when you could no longer care for yourself. You trusted me in your most vulnerable season, and though I stumbled and grieved and broke more times than I can count, I never stopped being your daughter.

​You were deeply loved.
You are still deeply missed.
And I am still learning how to carry both those truths at once.

Blessed Through Brokenness: A Veteran Wife’s Reflection on Service, Struggle, and Healing
First and foremost, I hold the deepest respect for those who have sacrificed their lives, those who came close to losing them, and those who silently battle the lasting effects of trauma. As a proud wife of an Army veteran—with multiple deployments and long stints of garrison duty—I know firsthand the complexity of life after service. My husband, a soldier through and through, was deeply committed to serving our country. He carried himself with discipline, purpose, and devotion—values that continue to define him. But like many who transition from military life, the most difficult battles began after the uniform was put away.

Our story didn’t follow the script of traditional PTSD symptoms. There were no flashbacks or exaggerated startle responses. What we encountered instead was something quieter—but no less destructive: a deep emotional dysregulation, persistent irritability, drinking to cope, and relationship strain that intensified after separation from the Army. These experiences align with what many veterans face but don’t recognize: Adjustment Disorder, one of the most prevalent yet overlooked mental health challenges in the post-military community.

Adjustment disorders arise when the stress of transition—such as leaving military structure, identity loss, or moral injury—leads to intense emotional or behavioral symptoms. My husband experienced exactly that. Once bound by duty and a chain of command, he was suddenly unbound, drifting between soldier and civilian. Drinking worsened, emotional distance grew, and the man I had once admired became increasingly unpredictable. I often found myself walking on eggshells, managing my own emotions to keep peace in our home. The tears, the silence, the miscommunication—they all took their toll.

There were moments I was breathless with grief, collapsed in prayer, asking God to intervene in ways I couldn’t even name. And yet, we endured. Through God’s grace and a long, painful reckoning, my husband began to understand not just the pain he carried—but the pain he caused. He learned that I didn’t need solutions—I needed presence. He began to soften, to listen, and to reach for me, not as a soldier, but as a man learning to love again in the unfamiliar terrain of post-service life.

This is what it looked like for us when the wounds weren’t labeled PTSD, but were no less real. Our marriage bore the marks of grief, confusion, and isolation—but also resilience and redemption. I still work to untangle what is trauma, what is temperament, and what is simply life. And while our path has been muddy and complex, I now see that we are not broken—we are blessed through our brokenness.
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To the spouses navigating this journey: your story is valid. Your pain is not invisible. Adjustment disorders are real, common, and treatable. If this resonates, know that you are not alone. Healing is possible—not by erasing the past, but by walking together toward a future with understanding, compassion, and grace.

Boundaries are more than just geographic lines dividing countries, states, and towns. They represent the personal parameters we establish in relationships—guidelines that help define how we interact with others and how we expect others to interact with us. But why is there so much emphasis on boundaries? Why do entire books focus on setting and maintaining them? Shouldn’t this all come naturally? After all, it seems obvious: if someone doesn’t want to be hugged, you don’t hug them. If someone is busy and declines your call, you don’t keep calling every few minutes.

In counseling, boundaries are frequently discussed in the context of codependency—a relational pattern where individuals struggle to make decisions without external validation, or overly invest in another person’s emotions and needs at the expense of their own. Boundaries become especially important when we are on the receiving end of excessive emotional or physical reliance. They help us define our comfort zones and teach us to recognize what behaviors feel acceptable or intrusive. You’ve likely heard someone say, “They just don’t have healthy boundaries.” Such comments often stem from witnessing a pattern of enmeshment or boundary violations.

As parents, teaching children about healthy boundaries begins with modeling appropriate emotional connections. This means taking an honest inventory of your own behavior. Are you demonstrating respect in your own relationships—through the way you express affection, resolve conflict, or honor personal space? Children learn what is acceptable by watching their caregivers. Pay attention to how your child engages with peers. Do they offer excessive affection, such as hugging even after being asked to stop? Are they trying to "buy" friendships with gifts or rewards? These behaviors offer teachable moments to reinforce respectful and balanced social interactions.

When raising teenagers, boundaries take on a new level of complexity. Adolescents need guidance that blends structure with autonomy—a concept sometimes called autonomous love. This is especially challenging in a world saturated with social media and digital connection. As a parent, establish boundaries that support your teen’s mental, emotional, and physical well-being, knowing full well that these limits will be tested. Boundary-pushing is part of adolescent development. Rather than relying on the outdated phrase, “Because I’m the parent, that’s why,” take the time to explain your reasoning. Offering insight into your decisions builds trust and encourages your teen to develop their own judgment and values.
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In adulthood, boundary-setting remains just as essential. Like the unique laws and customs of different states or countries, each person’s boundaries are shaped by their values, preferences, and life experiences. One person might enjoy physical affection, while another might find it uncomfortable or intrusive. Understanding personality traits—such as introversion and extroversion—can also help you interpret how people express themselves and connect with others. Everyone has a personal history that influences their worldview and behavior. Being mindful of this fosters empathy and patience.
Importantly, remember that everyone makes mistakes in navigating boundaries—including ourselves. But mistakes are not failures—they are opportunities for growth. Learning what feels right and wrong in a relationship is a process, and mistakes are often part of that journey. Don’t take it personally; instead, reflect on the experience and integrate the lesson into your personal awareness. Relationships take time, and trust is built gradually. Setting and respecting boundaries is a foundational part of that process.