I used to think I was patient. I believed I could wait calmly, handle frustration without losing my cool, and listen without interrupting. But dementia taught me what patience truly means — and it’s nothing like I imagined.
When someone you love starts to change because of dementia, patience isn’t just about waiting quietly. It’s about holding space for confusion, fear, and frustration that don’t have easy answers. It’s about understanding that the person you knew might forget your name, repeat the same question over and over, or become angry without reason. It’s about staying present even when the person you love seems lost in a world you can’t follow.
I remember the early days when my loved one’s personality shifted. There were moments of anger and sadness that felt like they were directed at me, even though I knew they weren’t. It felt like nothing I did was right. I thought I was patient then, but I was just trying to cope. Real patience came later — when I learned to listen without judgment, to respond with kindness even when it was hard, and to accept that some days would be better than others.
Dementia strips away many things, but it also teaches you to slow down. You learn to celebrate small victories — a smile, a moment of recognition, a calm afternoon. You learn to find joy in the present, even when the future feels uncertain. You learn that patience isn’t about waiting for things to get better; it’s about being there, fully, through the struggle.
Sometimes, patience means letting go of control. It means adapting your expectations and finding new ways to connect. Music, familiar routines, gentle touch — these become bridges when words fail. You realize that patience is not passive; it’s active love, a daily choice to stay compassionate and hopeful.
Dementia taught me that patience is not a fixed trait but a practice. It’s messy, exhausting, and sometimes heartbreaking. But it’s also the deepest form of care you can give — to someone else and to yourself.
