Freedom in Forgetting
Are our memories really the measure of a good life? Milly is showing me that it’s the soft, settled, mellow moments that matter just as much.
Theme: The Beauty
Key Takes:
What if memory isn’t what gives a life all its value?
What if peace doesn’t depend on remembering?
What if love still works when stories disappear?
The Memorable Isn’t Always the Meaningful
Over Christmas and the New Year, caring for Milly reminded me of an early and unexpected discovery: that forgetting can sometimes bring a quiet kind of freedom.
Once Milly felt safe with me - when I stopped challenging her all the time - her memory loss gradually eased the weight of so much guilt and worry. The endless pressure to keep up appearances and the old concerns that once preoccupied her became easier to let go of. She became lighter, more often fun, bright, and loving, and less likely to raise subjects that so easily led to tricky situations or upset.
Caring for Milly continues to gently challenge the belief that memory defines our value, and that when it slips away, meaning goes with it. I’m learning that life’s deepest happiness rarely comes from dramatic highs or photo-rich occasions but from softer, steadier spaces - the reassurance of safety, the quiet comfort of love, and the simple pleasure of being present. In these moments, even when memory fades, life still feels rich and human for Milly.
Beyond the Diary Dates
The happiness that settles me right down into my tummy doesn’t come from the exciting or hugely anticipated diary booked occasions. It comes when a few simple things are in place.
Looking forward to something gentle - a family roast or time with a good friend - brings a sense of snug and happy.
The Hard Truths
None of this is to dismiss the tragedy and pain dementia brings. The loss of independence is immense, and the erosion of shared history is deeply sad. Dementia is hard for Milly and for everyone who loves her.
And yet…
A Day That Could Have Been So Different
Recently, we had a family gathering that could have become a major emotional event. After years of disconnection, my brother came back into Milly’s life - and into his son’s life - meeting his grandson for the first time.
In the past, this would have been built up for weeks, full of fear and family stress, and might not even have happened. This time, it was different.
I didn’t tell Milly he was coming until about an hour beforehand. Context can still matter to her, even if time doesn’t, so I told her it was last minute because none of us were sure it would happen. She had a brief flicker of worry about being ready and what might be expected of her, but I reassured her that she could follow her usual routine and that there’d be no fuss. She sat in her favourite chair reading the paper until he arrived.
When she saw him, it was very special. She was in her safe place - her room, her chair - and she felt calm. She didn’t join us for lunch. She asked if she should and was visibly relieved when I said it would be far too busy and tiring for her. Everyone visited her in turn and she smiled throughout the day - helped I’m sure by the steady routine and her usual sleep in the afternoon.
She hugged my brother as if she’d seen him the day before. She spoke a great deal of her mother, his grandmother, and told simple heartfelt stories about how much time his grandmother spent with him as a little boy. As her dementia has progressed, she talks more about her parents and her childhood - these are the memories that sit most solidly.
She called my brother by her nephew’s name. I’d already explained to him that ‘out of sight is out of mind’ and he understood that what mattered wasn’t the name itself, but the warmth behind it. She was drawing on a feeling of deep affection for her nephew.
When Feeling Lasts Longer Than Memory
Seeing him again a week later, she called him by his correct name. Even without remembering the first visit in detail, the positive experience had already done its work. I believe that her brain had learned that being with him felt good, and she repeatedly said his name and held his hand.
When she saw him with his son, she forgot the years of separation entirely. She focused only on the happiness of that moment. The one thing that stayed with her was that my father wasn’t there to see his son, grandson, and great-grandson together.
She looked tearful later.
“I think you feel a little sad,” I said.
“Oh no. I don’t feel sad!”
“You look emotional - but maybe happy emotional?”
“Yes,” she smiled. “That’s it. It feels nice.”
The next morning, she didn’t mention the visit. But when I did, she smiled and said, “What a lovely day we all had.”
And that was it. No anxiety. No distress. No lingering worry. The past chaos didn’t matter. What mattered was the now - the shared sense of love, presence, and safety.
A reminder of the freedom in forgetting.
What Lasts
Caring for Milly continues to show me that life’s deepest moments of happiness don’t have to live in exciting times or camera highlights. They live in the everyday comforts that give us strength, the reassurance of love and safety, and the pleasure of being with the people we care about.
In these times, even when memory fades, life feels rich, warm, and snuggly.
These thoughts builds on more than a few earlier pieces, but particularly Beauty & the Best (01.09.2025) where I first explored the freedom Milly and I began to find in forgetting, and in Dope It Out Joyfully (04.09.2025) where I reflected on the dopamine effect.