The holidays are often painted as a season of joy, laughter, and togetherness. But for those of us caring for a loved one with dementia, Christmas can carry an entirely different weight—a mix of sadness, exhaustion, and longing. The traditions we once held close change, conversations become harder, and the person we love may not even seem to be here anymore in the ways we wish they could be. Yet, in those quieter, still moments, I learned one of the most profound lessons: the greatest gift we can give is presence.
I remember one Christmas with my mother. By then, dementia had stolen her words. We couldn’t talk as we used to, and I felt a deep ache in my heart knowing that the connection we once had was slipping further away. I remember sitting next to her that holiday season, holding her hand as if clinging to a piece of her that dementia couldn’t take. I played Christmas carols I knew she had loved her whole life—Silent Night, Oh Holy Night, The First Noel—and though she could no longer sing along or tell me if she remembered them, there was something in her presence. A calm. A faint peace. It was just us, in that quiet space of love, with no words needed.
Now, after she’s gone, those memories of holding her hand while the carols played bring me a comfort I never expected. When I hear those same songs today, I think of her, sitting there with me. I no longer think of the loss or sadness as much as I remember the love in that simple moment—a gift she unknowingly gave me.
Years later, I felt something very similar as I sat with my late husband during the holidays. As his journey with dementia continued, our Christmases became simpler, more subdued. I learned to put aside the expectations of busy traditions and long conversations. I stopped thinking about what he could no longer give to me—his words, his humor, his shared memories—and just tried to be there with him. I played carols, made his favorite treats, even if he didn’t finish them, and I sat holding his hand as I had with my mother. The tasks often felt endless and unseen, and there were moments of loneliness and frustration. But now that he, too, is gone, I can look back at those Christmases and see what truly mattered: our presence together.
For anyone caring for a loved one with dementia this Christmas, I see you. I know how heavy it can feel when you’re trying to juggle caregiving with holiday expectations, all while silently grieving what has changed. You may wonder if any of it matters. The truth is, it does.
Your loved one may not remember the decorations, the special cookies, or even your name, but they know love. They feel comfort in your presence even if they cannot express it. A hand to hold, a familiar song, a gentle smile—these are the moments that transcend memory and ability. These are the moments you will hold onto long after the holidays and your loved one have passed.
The greatest gift of the season isn’t in the presents we give or the perfect celebrations we try to create. It’s in the quiet, simple moments where we just are. The gift of presence is quiet. It often feels small. But in the end, it is the one gift that truly lasts—for them and for you.
So this Christmas, I invite you to slow down. Sit with them. Hold their hand. Play the music they used to love. Speak softly to them even if they cannot respond. Be fully present—and let love fill the spaces where words may no longer exist. One day, these may be the moments you cherish most of all.
Because Christmas is not about what they can no longer give to us, but what we can still give to them. And love, as I’ve learned, is the greatest gift of all.
So, this Christmas, if you’re feeling tired, unappreciated, or sad that your loved one can no longer join in the holiday the way they used to, I hope you remember this: your presence matters. In the quiet of this difficult season, you are creating a memory—for yourself, for them, and for the love you both share.
One day, it will be these moments you hold on to.
And for today, simply being there is enough.
As I sit and remember those moments with my mom and Joe
—the carols, the stillness, the hands I held—I hope you find comfort in the moments you’re creating this season. Know that the love you give matters more than any perfect celebration.
From my heart to yours, I’m wishing you peace, love, and the comfort of presence this Christmas.
With love,
Barbara
I still miss mom