S3 Ep 5 - The 5-Second Secret to Deep Connection in Dementia Care

Welcome back to the Caregiver Secrets Podcast! As many of you know, this is the show where we share practical advice, heartfelt stories, and encouragement for those who give their all to care for loved ones. Thank you for listening today. I want you to know that I am also a family caregiver and have been one for over 10 years. I am taking care of my mom. I hope you can see and feel that the insights, encouragement and information that I share with you come from a place of understanding and authenticity.

Let me remind you though that this is not medical, financial, or health advice. Please consult with the appropriate professionals for specific concerns. My role is to inform and support you as best I can, but the actions you take are totally up to you. With that said, let’s get to work.

Here is a heartfelt story that highlights what we are discussing today.

Jared adjusted his mother’s scarf as he helped her into the wheelchair. The hospital hallway was bustling with nurses, families, and the occasional clatter of a meal cart being pushed to its next stop. His mother, Diane, once the vibrant heart of their family, now had eyes that flickered between recognition and confusion.

“Where are we going?” she asked, clutching her purse—a habit from years of independence.

Jared smiled. “Just a little walk, Mom. Fresh air.”

The truth was, he needed the walk as much as she did. Lately, caregiving had felt like an endless cycle of reminders, redirections, and exhaustion. Diane’s dementia was progressing, and though he tried to find meaning in their time together, most days blurred into a routine of repeated questions and small frustrations.

As they reached the hospital’s small courtyard, the crisp autumn air greeted them. Jared parked the wheelchair near a bench, sat down beside her, and exhaled.

Diane reached into her purse and pulled out an old photograph. Jared leaned closer. It was a picture of him as a child, sitting on his father’s shoulders at a carnival. He had never seen it before.

“Do you remember this, Mom?”

She studied the picture, her lips moving slightly as if trying to recall. Then she shook her head. “No, but I do know this feeling.”

“What feeling?”

She reached over, patting his hand gently. “Love.”

Jared swallowed hard. In that moment, all the stress, the exhaustion, the endless cycle of caregiving—none of it mattered. This was what he was fighting for. The small moments. The ones that couldn’t be measured but meant everything.

That night, he sat by her bedside, humming an old lullaby she used to sing. Her breathing slowed, her grip on his hand relaxed, and for the first time in weeks, she slept peacefully.

The next morning, Jared woke up with a new perspective. He couldn’t stop the disease, but he could choose how he showed up. He started looking for ways to create more small moments—sitting quietly with her, playing music she used to love, telling old family stories even if she didn’t remember them.

Over time, he realized that connection wasn’t in the big gestures. It was in the touch of a hand, the familiar hum of a song, the warmth of simply being there.

Now, for me, when I was growing up, laughter filled our home—it was the language of our love, the glue that held us together through life’s ups and downs. My mom and I shared so many moments of pure joy, where humor wasn’t just entertainment; it was connection. That’s why now, in the midst of caregiving, every smile, every chuckle, every fleeting moment of laughter feels like a bridge back to her—to us. No matter how much has changed, that spark remains, reminding me that love isn’t just in words; it’s in the moments that make us laugh together.

 

Now, let’s talk about why these small moments matter so much.

Research from the Journal of Alzheimer’s Disease shows that even brief positive interactions improve mood and slow cognitive decline. Dr. Robert Butler, who pioneered Reminiscence Therapy, found that discussing past memories—even if the details weren’t accurate—helped dementia patients feel more emotionally secure.

And science backs this up: Dr. Paul Zak’s research on oxytocin—the “bonding hormone”—shows that simple gestures like touch, laughter, and shared experiences reduce stress and improve emotional well-being for both the caregiver and their loved one.

So, how can we intentionally create more of these moments?

First, practice presence. Your loved one may not remember details, but they will remember feelings. Put away distractions and focus on simply being there.

Second, create simple rituals. Maybe it’s a nightly song, a gentle hand massage, or flipping through a photo album. Routine brings comfort, especially in late-stage dementia.

Third, embrace their reality. If they believe they are in a different time period, meet them there instead of correcting them. Validation Therapy, developed by Naomi Feil, teaches us that stepping into their world reduces agitation and fosters connection.

And most importantly, release expectations. Your loved one may not always recognize you, but love is not just in words—it’s in presence, in patience, and in the way you continue to show up.

Before we wrap up, let’s take a moment for a mantra from my book, Get Risen:

“A flood of joy and gladness has displaced all sadness.”

Let this be your mindset today. Look for joy in the smallest of moments.

I’d love to hear from you. Have you ever had a small but meaningful moment with your loved one? Share your story in the comments or email me. And if this episode resonated with you, don’t forget to subscribe and share it with another caregiver who might need it today.

And don’t forget to join our Facebook community at bit.ly/CaregiverSecretsOnFacebook, where we share stories, tips, and encouragement. Together, we can build a village of support and make this journey a little lighter.

Finally, I’d love for you to grab a free copy of my book, Get Risen. It’s written by a family caregiver for caregivers, and you can get it at bit.ly/GetRisen.

Thank you for being here. Until next time, take a deep breath, embrace the small moments, and remember—you’re not alone.