Mum Is No Longer Mum

For a long time, my mum was the quiet force behind everything. Resilient, practical, and sharp—she was the kind of person who kept the world turning while rarely asking for anything in return. But dementia has a way of changing not just memory, but identity. Over time, I watched the woman I knew slip away, bit by bit.

This isn't just a story about loss. It's about what remains.

Dementia doesn’t always announce itself. It creeps in, misplacing names, tangling timelines, and then quietly rewiring relationships. It demands a new kind of presence—a new kind of patience—from everyone involved. For many families like mine, it marks the beginning of a long and complicated goodbye.

Grief, when it arrives early and stays too long, becomes part of the daily rhythm. It’s no longer the sharp stab of loss, but the quieter ache of watching someone fade while still being right there.

But here’s the surprising part: amidst the confusion, laughter still breaks through. Moments of recognition—however fleeting—become treasures. You begin to find joy in fragments. A smile. A shared song. The simple act of holding hands.

In professional spaces, we don’t often talk about this kind of grief. It's not the headline version. It’s not a clean before-and-after story. It's layered and ongoing. And for those who are caregivers, it runs parallel to their work lives, often silently. The emotional labor is real, and yet it’s rarely acknowledged.

That’s why I’m writing this.

Because grief isn’t always about death. Sometimes it's about the slow transformation of someone you love. And talking about it matters—not just for awareness, but for empathy. For flexibility in the workplace. For better mental health support. For those of us navigating these invisible responsibilities, a little understanding goes a long way.

To anyone living through something similar: you’re not alone. You’re doing better than you think. And while the roles may change, the love remains.