This blog isn’t curated or polished. It’s not for sympathy or spectacle. It’s a place to put the things I can’t always say out loud – grief, memory, guilt, love, survival. It’s a place to tell the truth, even if it’s messy. Especially if it’s messy.

Right now, I’m caring full-time for my mother. She has Vascular Dementia, with overlapping Lewy-body Dementia. Luck of the draw? It’s like she won the lotto in backwards. She’s the only family, outside of my own husband and kids, that I have left, and some days, she doesn’t remember me as I am. More often than not, she doesn’t remember me at all.

But I remember everything.

The good. The brutal. The “Chosen” narrative she handed me when I was old enough to ask why I didn’t look like anyone else in our family. I was the miracle they prayed for. Or at least, that’s what they told me. But miracles, I’ve learned, come with fine print.

This is where I’ll be writing it down. The past. The present. The unraveling. The reckoning. The small glimmers of grace in between.

Because even if she forgets, I won’t. And maybe that’s the point.