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You know, love isn’t always about big, dramatic gestures. Most of the time, it’s in the little things, the squeeze of a hand, a soft smile, whispering someone’s name. When you’re caring for someone with dementia, saying “I love you” can feel complicated. Sometimes they don’t respond. Sometimes it’s like the words disappear into the air. And that can hurt a lot. But here’s the thing, it doesn’t mean the love isn’t there. It doesn’t vanish. I think of a woman who visited her husband every single day. At the end of each visit, she whispered, “I love you, darling.” Most days, he didn’t say it back. She would leave feeling a little empty, wishing he could hear her. Then, one day, 10–15 minutes after she had gone, a caregiver heard him softly say, “I love you too.” It wasn’t said to her face, but it didn’t matter; the love was still there. Quiet, real, and very much alive. That’s what I want people to remember: even when dementia changes how someone responds, your love still reaches them. Every kind word, every gentle touch, every moment of presence—it stays with them. It matters. So say it. Say “I love you.” Say it often. Hold hands. Sit together. Smile. Laugh. Read a story. Sing a song. All those little moments keep your connection alive. Love doesn’t disappear. It stays. Always.

When you love someone living with dementia, it’s natural to notice what’s changed. The words that don’t come as easily. The stories that wander. The quiet moments that used to be full of conversation. At first, that’s all I could see — what was slipping away. I found myself grieving little losses every day. The things they couldn’t do anymore stood out like empty spaces. But over time, I realized that if I kept focusing on what wasn’t there, I was missing what still was.

I remember one afternoon sitting with someone I care deeply about. They were folding napkins — over and over again, the same one. My first instinct was to step in, to “fix it,” to remind them that the napkin was already folded. But then I stopped. I watched their hands move carefully, their face calm and focused. There was comfort in the rhythm. There was a purpose. In that moment, I saw it — what was still there. The ability to engage. The desire to help. The dignity in doing something that mattered, even in a small way. Since then, I’ve tried to look through that lens more often.

I’ve learned that communication doesn’t always need words. A smile, a soft touch, or a shared song can speak louder than any sentence. A simple “thank you” after they help with something — even if you did most of it — can light up their face with pride. 

Meeting someone living with dementia where they are means letting go of our expectations and entering their world instead of asking them to live in ours. It means noticing what brings them comfort and joy — even if it’s the same story told five times, or a daily routine that feels repetitive to us.

When I focus on what remains, I see how much there still is to connect with. There’s humor, tenderness, curiosity, and sometimes even mischief. There’s history in every expression, love in every gesture, and meaning in every small success.

 Yes, dementia changes things. But it doesn’t erase the person. They are still here — just living differently, in a different rhythm.And when we learn to see what’s still there instead of what’s not, we find that love and connection haven’t gone anywhere. They’ve just changed shape. 

If you’re walking this journey with someone living with dementia, try to notice the small moments. See the person in front of you — not just the disease. Celebrate what they can do. Appreciate the spark that still shines through. Because when we choose to see what’s still there, we discover that there’s so much more left to hold onto than we ever imagined.

In 2018 I spent 6 weeks walking the Camino de Santiago (500 miles) and it was a life changing experience.  This journey fostered emotional connections with people from all over the world, a therapeutic journey living in the moment, and so much more.

 The Camino is a network of pilgrimages leading to the shrine of the apostle Saint James in the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in Galicia in northwestern Spain. For centuries, it has drawn millions of pilgrims, each walking for their own reasons—spiritual, physical, or emotional healing.  The purpose of my journey was not just the physical challenge but an opportunity to mend my broken heart, feel emotionally free and share this experience with my love.  To be out of my comfort zone, feel free in nature, and be open to whatever gifts the day would present. 

The gentle crunch of gravel underfoot seemed louder than usual in the peaceful silence of the early morning. Each morning as I began my walk on a segment of the Camino it was as if seeing the world with new eyes.  The natural beauty of the route, with its rolling hills and the endless sky.  Passing other pilgrims  saying "Buen Camino", a Spanish phrase that means "good path" or "good road".  Seeing friends that became my Camino Family, finding the perfect cup of espresso in a small café in the woods, stopping to admire the beauty of a 12^th Century bridge or a 13^th Century Church, someone selling fresh fruit alongside the road, stopping to pet a wild horse  in the mist of the Pyrenees, and sitting quietly beneath sprawling trees on a sunny Sunday hearing church bells from the next city. It wasn't just the  physical act of walking every day, but that I was weaving my steps along the paths trodden by so many others before me.

 But the Camino presented unique challenges. There were moments of frustration, confusion, and fatigue—sore  blistered feet, aches and pain,  exhaustion, or finding yourself at the end of the day with nowhere to stay.  There were steep climbs and dangerous ascents, gravel, mud, and rain.  But it somehow worked itself out either by sheer courage or the help of a fellow pilgrim. However solved, it felt like a great accomplishment and I was proud to of had that opportunity. It empowered me. 

Along the path, I marveled at the architectural splendors of ancient churches and the serene beauty of the Spanish countryside.   Appreciating little things that I otherwise may over look: a beautiful large tree in the morning mist, a field of yellow canna shining in the Rioja afternoon sun, or a smooth running river under the bridge in Puente la Renia.   

Reaching the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela was an emotional climax. Standing before the imposing façade, amongst a crowd of other pilgrims, you feel a profound connection not only to your Camino-self but to the thousands of souls who had traversed the same path, each carrying their own burdens and hopes.  In this sacred space, it wasn’t about ending a journey but celebrating the experience and always moving forward. 

The lessons learned on the Camino went beyond what I had hoped. It reinforced the power of love and patience, the ability to face situations that took me out of my comfort zone and the importance of making every moment count. 

This transfers into my passion for People Living with Dementia.  Understanding that every situation creates a different challenge and opportunity.  It us up to us how we take on that challenge and use that opportunity going forward. 

So let’s  embrace our connections, live in the moment, be open and face those situations that take us out of our comfort zone.  Putting a priority to be open, educate ourselves and continue to share experiences with our loved ones.  No matter where our person is in their journey we can walk WITH them, LOVE  each moment with them, and keep moving FORWARD.