There’s no easy way to describe the heartbreak of watching a parent forget who you are.
Whether it’s due to dementia, Alzheimer’s, or another condition, the emotional toll can be deep and disorienting. One minute you’re their child, the next you’re a stranger. If you’re navigating this kind of loss-in-slow-motion, here are some ways to cope—emotionally, practically, and gently—with a reality that can feel almost impossible to accept. It won’t be easy, but any bit of relief will certainly be welcome.
Let yourself grieve while they’re still here.
It’s normal to feel like you’re losing them twice—once to the illness, and again when they eventually pass. That kind of grief is real, even though they’re physically present. You’re mourning memories they don’t share with you anymore, conversations that won’t come back, and a connection that now feels one-sided.
Don’t feel guilty for grieving early. Anticipatory grief is a quiet kind of heartbreak, and it deserves space too. You’re not being dramatic for feeling lost, angry, or completely hollowed out by it. You’re just being human, and your feelings are valid, no matter when they show up.
Try to meet them where they are now.
If they don’t remember you, it can feel instinctual to keep trying to ‘bring them back’—to jog their memory or correct them. But this often leads to more confusion and distress, for both of you. Instead, try stepping into their current reality, even if it’s far from the one you once shared.
That might mean calling yourself “a friend” if they don’t know you’re their child, or going along with a story they’ve pieced together. It’s not giving up. It’s choosing calm connection over confrontation. It’s choosing comfort over correctness. And sometimes, that’s the kindest thing you can do.
Focus on emotional connection, not factual memory.
Even if they don’t know your name or your history together, they might still feel your love. The emotional part of the brain can respond long after the logical part fades. A gentle tone, a warm smile, or a familiar scent can bring comfort in ways words can’t. This is where presence matters more than details. They may not say, “I know you,” but they might light up when you walk in the room. That’s a connection, even if it doesn’t follow the usual script, and it still counts.
Let go of the guilt about not doing enough.
It’s easy to fall into the trap of self-blame, thinking you should have visited more, said different things, or somehow prevented the decline. However, this isn’t your fault. Dementia and cognitive decline don’t follow logic, and love alone can’t stop them.
You’re doing your best in an impossible situation. And showing up, even when it hurts or feels thankless, is already a powerful act of love. You don’t need to be perfect. You just need to be there when you can—without torturing yourself over what you couldn’t control.
Create small rituals that still feel meaningful.
When the big moments—birthdays, holidays, family stories—start to fade, look for smaller ways to connect. Maybe it’s brushing their hair like they used to do yours. Maybe it’s playing music they once loved. These rituals may seem simple, but they carry weight.
They’re a reminder that connection isn’t always verbal or memory-based. It can live in routine, in shared sensory moments, in the ordinary things you do together. That can be enough, even when nothing else feels familiar anymore.
Give yourself permission to feel all of it.
Loss like this doesn’t come with clean stages. One minute you might feel strong, the next completely broken. You might even feel relief, then guilt for feeling relieved. It’s messy and painful and entirely natural. Let yourself feel all of it without trying to ‘tidy up’ your grief. You don’t need to be the emotionally steady one all the time. You’re allowed to cry, rage, feel numb, or even laugh at something ridiculous they said that made no sense but somehow still made your heart soften.
Talk to people who understand what you’re going through.
There’s a kind of loneliness that comes with watching someone forget you. Friends who haven’t experienced it might mean well but say the wrong things. That’s why support groups, whether in person or online, can make a huge difference. Talking to people who know exactly what this kind of loss feels like can take some of the pressure off. You don’t have to explain the guilt, the helplessness, or the strange comfort of fleeting lucidity. They’ll just get it, and that can be a relief.
Capture memories for yourself, even if they can’t.
If they no longer remember the holidays you spent together, the advice they gave, or the quirks that made them who they were, you still can. Write them down. Record stories. Save photos and videos that help you hold onto who they were before the illness.
These aren’t just keepsakes for nostalgia. They’re anchors for your identity, too, especially when your role in their life is changing. They remind you that your relationship mattered, and still does, even if it looks completely different now.
Don’t feel bad for taking breaks.
Caring for or visiting someone who doesn’t recognise you is emotionally draining. You don’t need to be there every day to prove your love. Sometimes the most loving thing you can do, for both of you, is step away when you need to. Use that space to rest, cry, decompress, or just do something that reminds you that you’re still a person too. You’re allowed to protect your own mental health without guilt. Being their child doesn’t mean sacrificing yourself entirely.
Accept that your role is changing.
You may no longer be “the daughter” or “the son” in their mind. That can feel like erasure, like your place in their story is gone. However, what you are now—whether that’s a caregiver, a gentle companion, or a safe presence—is still important. Your relationship isn’t gone. It’s just evolved into something harder to define. The titles may blur, but the care you bring is still real. Even if they don’t recognise your face, they may still feel the safety you’ve always offered.
Don’t get stuck chasing one last lucid moment.
When they occasionally say something that sounds like the old them, it can feel like a window opening. But trying to force or recreate those moments can lead to more pain than peace. You can’t control when or if clarity will come again. Instead of clinging to what might never happen again, try to stay grounded in the present. If a clear moment comes, let it be a gift. If not, that doesn’t mean you’ve lost everything. Their presence still has value, even without recognition.
Find new ways to say “I love you.”
You may not hear “I love you” back anymore, but there are still ways to express love, and feel it. Through small kindnesses, shared touch, or a calm presence. Even if the words are gone, the intention can still be felt. It might be in the way you hold their hand, adjust their blanket, or smile when they look your way. Those gestures matter. And deep down, even if they can’t name you, they might still sense your love in the room.
Let anger and sadness exist together.
It’s okay to be angry that this is happening. Angry that this isn’t fair. Angry that you’re being forgotten by someone who helped raise you. You don’t have to mask that with constant sadness or forced gratitude for “what’s left.” These emotions can exist side by side. You can feel deep sorrow and deep rage, and neither makes you a bad person or a bad child. This is a heavy thing to carry, and you’re not weak for feeling crushed by it some days.
Remind yourself of the love that was.
Just because they don’t remember loving you doesn’t mean they didn’t. That love shaped you. It helped build the person you are now. That still exists, even if their brain has lost the map to it.
Their current state doesn’t erase the past you shared. It just makes it harder to reach. So hold onto the truth: you were loved, you are loving, and this experience, while painful, is also a reflection of how much they once meant to you. That doesn’t disappear just because their memory does.
