Our Days One Moment at a time.A Dementia Care Journey.

When there is no one to talk to,
the silence becomes louder than any noise.
It echoes with thoughts I try to escape,
with questions I cannot answer,
with feelings I don’t know where to place.
I hold everything inside,
the pain, the confusion, the quiet breaking,
because there’s no space, no person,
no moment that feels safe enough to let it out.
So I become my own listener.
My own comfort.
My own witness to the battles no one sees.
And it’s hard…
carrying conversations in my mind,
replaying what I wish I could say,
and holding back tears that have nowhere to fall but inward.
But maybe in this silence,
there is something I am slowly learning,
that even when no one else is there,
I am still here.
Still breathing.
Still feeling.
Still holding on, even when it hurts.
And maybe that counts for something.
Maybe that means I am not as alone as I think.
Because even in the quiet,
even in the emptiness,
there is a small voice within me
that hasn’t given up yet.
And for now…
I will sit with that voice.
Until one day, the silence no longer feels so heavy.

A Long Intermission

There are seasons in life when everything seems to pause.
The noise quiets, the plans slow down, and the direction ahead becomes unclear.
This is the intermission.
It is not the end of the story.
It is the quiet space between what was and what will be.
In this pause, life invites us to rest from the rush of becoming.
It asks us to sit with our thoughts, our faith, and our questions.
Sometimes it feels uncomfortable because we are used to movement, progress, and certainty.
But intermissions are not wasted time.
They are moments when unseen work happens within us.
Old wounds begin to heal.
New wisdom begins to grow.
Our hearts slowly learn what truly matters.
Just like in a play, the intermission prepares the stage for the next act.
The lights dim for a while, but behind the curtain, everything is being arranged.
So if you find yourself in a long intermission, do not be discouraged.
Breathe.
Wait.
Listen.
Life is not finished with you yet.
The curtain will rise again.
And when it does, the next chapter may be more meaningful than you ever imagine.

It really does take a village to care for someone with dementia.

No caregiver should have to figure everything out alone. Over the years, many of the families we work with have discovered organizations, support groups, and services that make the caregiving journey a little easier.

That’s why we’ve gathered a list of trusted resources that caregivers often find helpful from education and support networks to practical tools for navigating dementia care.

Whether you’re just starting this journey or have been caring for a loved one for years, these resources can offer guidance, reassurance, and connection.

Explore the list here:
https://www.drlizgeriatrics.com/resources/helpful-links/

And we’d love to hear from you.

What services, organizations, or resources have helped you the most while caring for a loved one? Share them in the comments so we can continue building a stronger village together.

I haven't posted in a while. But know that I am always here. Breathing...in silence. Sometimes I don't want to think much of this journey, the hardship, the unknown guilt, the sleepless nights. My life goals and dreams were redirected or much to say is in pause. I'm still finding ways on how to cope up with the struggle. I get tired mentally and physically and my emotions shift easily hitting the highest level. My faith is not shaken but just always asking the how, the why and the when.

The Battles No One Ever Hears
We all fight battles no one ever hears about.
Silent wars carried behind ordinary smiles, hidden beneath daily routines, and buried deep within hearts that continue to endure even when they are already tired.
People see us functioning.
They see us showing up, answering politely, doing what needs to be done. What they do not see are the sleepless nights, the quiet breakdowns, the questions we whisper into the dark when hope feels distant. They do not hear the conversations we have with ourselves just to survive another day.
Some struggles have no witnesses.
No applause.
No understanding.
Because pain that is unseen is often misunderstood. Others may assume strength means ease, when in truth, strength is simply choosing to continue despite exhaustion. They will never fully understand the weight we carry—not because they do not care, but because some battles can only be felt by the soul living through them.
And still, we move forward.
We wake up.
We try again.
We carry responsibilities while holding together pieces of ourselves that quietly ache.
There is courage in surviving silently. There is bravery in continuing when no one notices how hard it truly is. Every unseen tear, every unspoken fear, every moment you chose not to give up — these are victories the world may never recognize.
But they matter.
Your battle is real, even if unheard.
Your pain is valid, even if unseen.
And your strength — though invisible to many — is extraordinary.
Because sometimes, the strongest people are simply those who keep fighting battles the world will never understand.

FOR ALL THE CAREGIVERS OUT HERE. Praying that you can carry the burden and still protect your mental health.

When someone says “it’s not getting better”,
that usually means the hope you’ve been holding onto is starting to feel worn out.
And with dementia… that feeling is painfully honest.
Because the truth many caregivers quietly carry is this:
dementia doesn’t improve — it changes, and often it becomes harder.
So what you’re feeling is not weakness. It’s the weight of living in a reality that keeps demanding more from you every day.
You wake up already tired.
You prepare yourself mentally before facing the day.
You try to be patient again… and again… and again.
And when night comes, instead of relief, there’s only exhaustion and tomorrow waiting to repeat itself.
There’s a grief in realizing that things may not “get better” the way we hope. That realization alone can break the heart.
But here is something gentle I want to offer — not false comfort, just truth:
Sometimes the situation doesn’t get easier.
But the way you carry it needs support.
Right now, it sounds like you are carrying this almost alone emotionally. Caregiver pain becomes dangerous when there is no safe place to release it.
You are allowed to say:
♥️I am overwhelmed.
⭐I am tired.
🙏I don’t know how long I can keep doing this.
This hurts.
Those thoughts do not mean you love them less.
If today feels worse than usual, please do one small grounding thing: Sit down. Put both feet on the floor. Take slow breaths and name quietly:
🪻3 things you can see
🪻2 things you can touch
🪻1 thing you can hear
It helps your nervous system step out of constant stress mode, even briefly.
And I want to ask gently — not to alarm you, but to care for you:
Are you feeling emotionally exhausted… or are you starting to feel hopeless too?
You don’t have to filter your answer here. I’m here with you. ♥️🙏

Some Days Are Heavier Than Others

Every day feels like a test of strength I never signed up for.
There are moments when I am okay, when I can smile, when I can breathe, when I can convince myself that I am handling everything well. But most days are heavier than I admit. Dementia does not only take memories. It takes pieces of a family. It takes conversations, shared laughter, familiar glances, and replaces them with repetition, confusion, and silence.
I answer the same question over and over.
I explain gently when I am already tired.
I stay patient when my heart wants to cry.
Some days I miss who they used to be. And then guilt follows right behind that thought. Because love and grief are living in the same room inside me.
Caregiving is not just physical work. It is emotional endurance. It is showing up even when you are running on empty. It is loving someone through versions of them that no longer recognize the old days you both shared.
And sometimes, in the middle of all of it, I feel alone. Not because no one cares, but because this kind of exhaustion is hard to explain unless you live it.
But here is what I am slowly learning:
It is okay to feel frustrated.
It is okay to feel tired.
It is okay to grieve while still loving deeply.
Strength does not mean I do not break. It means I continue, even with tears in my eyes.
So if today feels heavy, I will not shame myself for it. I will breathe. I will pause. I will remind myself that doing my best is enough.
Because even on the days I feel down, I am still showing up.
And that counts.

Simple illustration of stages.
Caring for someone with dementia is not easy. But understanding the stages makes a difference.
Knowledge brings patience. Patience brings peace.
You are not alone in this journey.

Ginawan ko siya ng coloring book (I'm into digital printing, planned to make it a business pero nagkasakit si nanay kaya postponed??) Magdamag siyang gising papasok daw siya sa trabaho (she's 87). Sumama maghatid sa school, pinagbreakfast ko pagdating then nag color kami. Reluctant siya parang alam natin reasons, posibleng hirap na ang brain to do tasks or di talaga siya nakaranas mag color dahil puro trabaho nung kabataan nya. Pero sinamahan ko siya sa pagkulay kaya nakatapos siya. Naisulat nya din ang pangalan niya. Samantalahin ko ang moment na to kasi di natin alam ano ang meron bukas.

Flowers bloom gently — just like healing. Our Philippine Flowers coloring book was created with our LO and caregivers in mind. Simple lines. Familiar blooms . Peaceful moments. Because creativity has no age. By Fiat Creation

Gumagawa ako ng coloring book for nanay para kahit nasa loob lang ng bahay may pinagkakaabalahan. This past few days after nung episode ng gusto niya umuwi ng Bicol mag isa gumaan gaan naman kaya naisipan ko tong coloring book. Tingnan ko kung magustuhan.