There’s something I have heard many care partners say—and maybe you’ve felt it too.

They describe their experience of watching their spouse or parent progress through dementia something like this:

“It feels like I’m watching someone I love slowly fade away. This is not the person I married anymore. This is not my mom, this is just the disease. I’m still with them, but little pieces—memories, reactions, familiar habits—seem to slip away one at a time. It’s not one big loss. It’s a thousand tiny ones.”

And then, right behind that thought comes the next one:

“How do I keep showing up with love when my heart hurts like this?”

If that sounds familiar, you’re in good company. This is one of the tender and very real challenges of dementia. It makes sense that it would feel confusing, emotional, and exhausting at times.

That’s exactly what this post is here to help you with. Because even here, even now, there is still hope—not for everything to go back to how it was, but for something meaningful and good to still be possible. It is possible to carry what’s hard and still find moments of calm, connection, and yes, real hope for how you move through this.

The Quiet Heartbreak of Loving Someone with Dementia

Grief in dementia care isn’t always loud. It doesn’t always come with tears. More often, it’s a quiet ache that shows up in everyday moments.

• Like when your spouse doesn’t laugh at the same jokes.
• When Mom has an off day in the kitchen, and you wonder if that ability is starting to slip away.
• When you catch yourself holding tightly to what’s still the same, knowing you will feel the sting when it changes, too.

This is the push and pull that wears so many care partners down. The emotional exhaustion of trying to enjoy today while quietly grieving what’s already changed, and what might change next.

Dare I take it one step further and name the grief of the loss you believe will come—but may not.

Here’s something worth saying out loud: This kind of grief is rarely recognized.

Most people think of grief as something that comes after a person is gone. But with dementia, you’re grieving while you’re still loving and caring for the person right in front of you.

And because this disease is progressive, it doesn’t settle. Just when you think you’ve adjusted, something shifts again. You barely find your footing before the ground moves beneath you.

But what if, just for a moment, you shifted your focus?  What if your hope wasn’t in what your loved one can still do, but in simply being with them, as they are today?

Imagine how that might feel—like discovering new ways to connect, one moment at a time, instead of feeling like you are losing your person again and again.

That’s what this post is here to help you do.

You’ll find three practical and gentle, yet powerful ways to move through this kind of grief so you can feel more grounded, more connected, and more hopeful in your role as a spouse or child, and care partner.

1. Let Grief and Love Coexist

One of the most common things I see in care partners, especially those who are deeply devoted, is the urge to push grief aside in order to “stay strong.”

You might feel like you need to put on a brave face, stay cheerful, focus on the positive.
Or maybe you tell yourself there’s no time to feel sad—there’s too much to do.

But here’s the gentle truth: grief isn’t something you have to get over in order to love well.
In fact, grief is often proof of how deeply you are loving.

Grief and love can live side by side.

• You can miss who your loved one used to be and still feel tenderness toward who they are today.
• You can feel a lump in your throat and let yourself laugh when something funny happens.
• You can carry sadness in one hand and hold theirs with the other.

Letting both be true, at the same time, is the very definition of being present.  And it’s powerful. It can change your life today, and how you carry this experience into the future.

When you stop trying to outrun or fix the sadness, you free up energy to actually be with your loved one. As they are. As you are. Right now.

In my dementia coaching sessions, we often spend (some or a lot of) time learning how to make space for both grief and joy. You don’t have to be one or the other — heartbroken or strong.

You can be both.

And when you start to practice this, many care partners notice something unexpected: a bit more balance. A bit more steadiness in themselves. A little less expectation (of themselves and their loved one). A bit more of themselves returning.

This shift, allowing both grief and love to be part of the experience, can be the beginning of a more peaceful understanding in your relationship—one that’s less about holding it all together and more about being grounded in what really matters.

2. Name the Losses as They Happen

Grief that comes from someone who you love having dementia doesn’t usually come from one big, obvious moment. It arrives quietly, through the small, unexpected shifts.

• Maybe your chivalrous husband no longer thanks you because he doesn’t fully grasp the depth of what you do.
• Maybe your mom pauses before answering a question she once jumped in on.
• Maybe your dad, who always wanted to help you, offers and offers help, but he can no longer provide the help you need.

These aren’t just changes. They’re losses. And when they’re left unspoken, they tend to pile up, leaving you feeling frustrated, sad, or impatient, without a tangible reason why.  You likely recognize the impact the disease has had, but perhaps you are left wondering why you are feeling or acting as you are.

Something noteworthy happens when you pause and simply name what you’re noticing:

• “That part is different now.”
• “I miss how we used to talk during our drives.”
• “That one caught me off guard.”

Naming the loss gives shape, context, and parameters to your experience. You see that the loss isn’t all encompassing, but it has impact.  It doesn’t fix it, but it makes it more understandable. And when you can see your grief more clearly, you’re less likely to feel swept away by it.

In fact, many care partners I work with initially describe feeling guilt.  They say things like:

• “I should’ve handled that better.”
• “I should be more patient.”
• “I should’ve known what to do.”

But often, what they’re calling guilt… is actually unrecognized grief.

As families share with me “what is happening” with their loved ones, I usually circle back to it to share “why it is happening”, meaning, what is happening in the brain of their loved one with dementia. Understanding this brings clarity—not just about their loved one’s behaviors and needs, but also about their own reactions and emotions.

When you start to name what you’re feeling, and why, it takes some of the power out of it.

You begin to realize: “This isn’t me falling apart. This is me feeling loss. And it makes sense.”

The losses don’t go away. But your relationship with them can shift.

And when that shift happens, it opens up more space—for peace, for presence, and for the kind of hope that doesn’t rely on everything staying the same.

3. Focus on Connection, Not Cognition

One of the hardest parts of dementia for many families is the loss of shared conversation. The ease of communication starts to fade. The repetition sets in, making the connection momentary.  Stories don’t land the same way. Recognition may flicker, or disappear altogether.

It can start to feel like the relationship is slipping away.

But here’s something important: connection doesn’t depend on cognition.

It doesn’t live only in words, memory, or conversation. 

Connection lives in your tone of voice. 

In your eye contact. 

In treating someone with value simply because they are human. 

In shared rhythm—like the quiet coordination of sitting together, the natural timing of humming in sync, or falling into a familiar pace as you walk side by side.

In a gentle look.

In the way your hand rests on theirs.

• Even when your dad can’t follow the storyline, he may still light up at your smile.
• Even when your mom doesn’t know your name, she may still relax when you enter the room.
• Even when your wife can’t form a sentence, she may still hum along to a familiar melody.
• Even when your mom doesn’t remember she has a new grandchild, she may light up like it is the first time she hears, every time.

Again and again, I’ve seen something shift when care partners stop reaching for who their loved one used to be and start noticing who they are right now.

There’s often more calm. Sometimes comfort. Most often, peace.

And more connection than they expected.

Let me guide you in making this exact shift—from measuring interactions by what’s missing to recognizing what’s still present.

Let me help you stop chasing perfect responses or hoping for a flash of the “old” version of your loved one—and start tuning in to the ways they’re still showing up.

And when that happens, something beautiful unfolds.

• You stop feeling like every moment is a test you’re failing.
• You begin to feel more settled in the unexpected.
• You notice more softness; in yourself, and in your loved one.
• You might even feel joy at times you wouldn’t have expected.

No, it’s not the same kind of connection you once had. But it’s not gone.

It’s just different. And it’s still deeply meaningful.

You Might Be Wondering…

“This all sounds good… but our situation feels different.”

Maybe you’re thinking:
“Our loss is too great.”
“We weren’t that close to begin with.”
“Our love was so deep—I don’t know if I can bear this.”

I’ve heard these things before. And I get it.

Every family has its own story. Its own past. Its own dynamics and depth.

And yet, I’ve seen something beautiful, again and again.

I’ve watched care partners gently shift their focus from what was to what is.  In doing so, they begin to see something they didn’t expect: opportunity. Not for repair or perfection, but for presence. For meaning. For today.

The relationship you’re in now isn’t about remembering everything from before.
It’s not about what your loved one can give, say, or do.
It’s about who you choose to be, right now, in this moment.

And what I’ve seen, time after time, is that when relationships begin to rebuild connection based on the present—rather than the past—something shifts.

They don’t lose themselves as easily.
They ride the emotional waves with a little more sturdiness.
They discover new moments of closeness they never could have scripted.

Franny and Lanie: A Real Story of Connection

Just to show you what this can look like in real life, I want to share a true story about two sisters I worked with named Franny and Lanie.

They both lived far from their parents. Their dad was the primary care partner for their mom, who was declining quickly in her dementia journey. He was exhausted, overwhelmed, and emotionally spent. He didn’t know what else to do.

The sisters took turns visiting home. At first, they were focused on what Mom could still do, how much she remembered, what skills she retained, what made her seem “like herself.”

But the more they learned how to support her and how to manage their own expectations they started to shift their focus. Instead of measuring every visit by what Mom could or couldn’t do, they began asking a different question:

How is she feeling today?  What makes her happy?

They noticed she was starved for connection. So, during their visits, they just sat with her. Talked with her. Sang with her. Laughed or held silence, depending on the moment. And they modeled this for their dad, too.

Then, something remarkable happened.

One visit, Lanie was sitting with her mom on the couch. Lanie’s oldest child was about to leave for college, and she was full of emotion like any parent would be.  She was nervous, proud, and sad. She started talking out loud, not expecting her mom to respond. Just sharing.

Her mom, mostly nonverbal by this point, turned to her, reached out, and took her hand. They sat there, crying quietly. No words. Just being together. Just love.

And in that moment, they were connected, not through memory or conversation, but through being.

That’s what becomes possible when you stop reaching for who someone used to be and meet them exactly where they are.

Let’s Recap

We’ve spent time looking at the quiet, ongoing grief that comes with loving and caring for someone with dementia. Not the kind of grief that follows a single loss, but the layered kind that sneaks in through everyday changes and stays.

We talked through three powerful ways to move through this grief with more steadiness, clarity, and hope:

1. Let Grief and Love Coexist
2. Name the Losses as They Happen
3. Focus on Connection, Not Cognition

Grief is invisible, but it touches everything—your energy, your expectations, your ability to enjoy the moments right in front of you. But when you begin to think differently about your relationship, something changes. You start to respond with more clarity, and care with more peace.

You’re not erasing the hard. But you are creating space for something better:
Presence. Calm. Purpose. And yes, hope.

What’s Next

If you’re ready to feel more clear, confident, and grounded in your relationship as a spouse or a child, and a care partner to someone with dementia, don’t wait.

You don’t have to stay stuck in heartbreak or guesswork. You don’t have to wonder if you’re doing it “right.” And you certainly don’t have to figure it out alone.