Now I Get to Be the Daughter

There comes a point in some caregiving journeys when you realize you cannot keep living every moment as the professional in the room.

For a long time, I was the social worker.

The therapist.

The care manager.

The one asking questions, coordinating services, anticipating problems and trying to stay three steps ahead of whatever might happen next.

Those skills helped my family.

But somewhere along the way, I realized I didn't want every moment with my parents to feel like a care conference.

So this time, I am putting some of those professional hats down.

Not because I suddenly know less.

Not because the responsibilities disappeared.

And certainly not because caregiving became easy.

I am putting them down because I want to be the daughter.

That is a huge turn for me.

Caregiver burnout still exists.

Sadness still shows up.

Anxiety still sneaks in.

There are still repetitive questions, difficult decisions, frustrating days and moments when all of us are exhausted.

Dementia did not suddenly become funny.

The way we are choosing to live alongside it is what has changed.

I spent so much of my first caregiving journey trying to solve everything.

This time, I want to notice everything.

The laughter.

The ridiculous moments.

The inside jokes.

The music.

The drives.

The things Dad says over and over that may irritate me today but could someday be exactly what I would give anything to hear one more time.

We are learning to laugh through some of the hardships.

Not at him.

Not at dementia.

And certainly not because the painful parts aren't real.

Sometimes laughter is simply how we breathe in the middle of something heavy.

It reminds us that there is still life happening here.

There are still memories being made.

There is still joy available to us.

And there is something else very different about this caregiving journey.

Dad is teaching me too.

I may know the healthcare system.

I may know caregiving.

I may know resources, assessments and care plans.

But Dad keeps teaching me how to lean into God.

He loves Jesus.

And he makes sure we know it.

Sometimes it's on his shirt.

Sometimes it's something he carries with him.

Sometimes it's a conversation we've probably had more than once.

And sometimes it is simply the certainty with which he talks about his faith.

Memory may fail him in surprising ways.

Names disappear.

Dates disappear.

Stories get mixed together.

But there are things rooted somewhere much deeper.

His love for God is one of them.

And there is something beautiful about watching that remain.

I went into this thinking I would be the one helping Dad navigate dementia.

Yet there are days when Dad, without even realizing it, is helping me navigate life.

He reminds me that I do not have to control everything.

That I cannot predict everything.

That there are things I have to surrender.

And that sometimes faith means saying:

God, I don't know what comes next. But I know You're already there.

That is hard for the care manager in me.

The care manager wants a plan.

The therapist wants to process it.

The social worker wants resources.

And the daughter?

The daughter is learning to trust.

This time around is different because I want it to be different.

I don't want to spend the entire journey anticipating the ending.

I don't want dementia to steal Dad twice—once while he is living because I am already grieving what may come, and again when he is actually gone.

I want him now.

I want the Dad sitting in front of me today.

Whatever version of Dad today brings.

So we are going to make memories.

We are going to take ridiculous pictures.

We are going to listen to music.

We are going to go for drives.

We are going to laugh at the things that are genuinely funny.

We are going to have hard days and give each other grace when we don't handle them perfectly.

We are going to say “I love you” a ridiculous number of times.

And when the day is difficult, we are going to try again tomorrow.

These next stories will still contain lessons because caregiving continues to teach us.

But they are also going to contain something I need for my own healing:

Joy.

These are the stories I want to lean into now.

Not because I am pretending the hard things aren't happening.

But because the hard things are not the only things happening.

There is still faith.

There is still family.

There is still laughter.

There is still love.

There is still Dad.

And perhaps this chapter isn't only about what dementia is taking from us.

Maybe it is also about what Dad is still giving me.

I spent years learning how to care for people professionally.

Now Dad is teaching me how to love through uncertainty, how to surrender what I cannot control, and how to lean a little harder into God.

So I am putting down the clipboard whenever I can.

This time, I get to be the daughter.

And Dad?

Dad still gets to be my teacher.