The punches you can hardly catch

Her hunched back and distant gaze are a heartbreaking sight. Not the mom I grew up watching; the fast-paced, sharp, almost intimidating force of energy who could walk into a room and either fix your life or tell you exactly why it was falling apart. Or usually both, honestly.

If you had told me in ’99 that by ’25 my mom would be a dependent version of herself, I would’ve laughed in your face. Loudly. Probably insulted you, too. Called you crazy…or maybe worse. She was the brain of the family. Honestly, I’d go as far as saying she was the brain of her entire friend group — everyone’s unofficial therapist, advisor, and occasional reality check.

She wasn’t just strong. She stood on her two feet with confidence. She was certain. And there’s something about certainty that makes you believe it’s permanent.

But life, of course, loves proving us wrong.

It takes you by surprise. Sometimes, in the most inconvenient ways. And sure, we all know that. We say it like a mantra: “expect the unexpected” — as if repeating it would somehow cushion the blow. Spoil alert: it doesn’t. The lowest punches still land exactly where it hurts, no matter how experienced you think you are.

Now, I stand by a camera day and night, watching my mom, making sure she’s okay. It’s a strange role reversal, like life quietly handed me a script and said, “Your turn,” without asking if I even signed up for it. And I feel nothing but gratitude for her care when I was young, but my thoughts are unfiltered and raw.

She still loves her independence. Even through the fog of dementia, that part of her is stubbornly intact. She knows what she wants and stands by it. She just doesn’t always know why, or how, or what comes next. And that’s where things get complicated.

Because there’s a limit to how much you can honor someone’s independence when their memory won’t cooperate. A limit no one really prepares you for. I try to hold my tears back when I think about it, like maybe if I don’t fully acknowledge it it won’t feel as heavy.

But let me stop myself there — it is heavy. It’s not just bad. It’s the kind of bad that settles into your bones and calcifies.

Still, she’s getting what she wants…for now. She’s in her home. Her space. Her version of comfort. And somehow, that has to count for something. I cling to that thought on the harder days, like it’s a small victory in a game I never thought I had to plan to learn the rules to, so I never did. 

I don’t know what the future holds, but if I’m being honest, it’s not looking particularly gentle. I keep my head up as much as my spirit (and my questionable posture) allow. Some days that means strength. Other days, it just means getting through without completely unraveling. Because it still takes a whole lot not to break in the middle of the night.

There isn’t always a hug nearby. No dramatic movie moment where someone shows up at your door at the exact second you need them. Most nights, it’s just me, my thoughts, and the quiet hum of responsibility. So I swallow the tears (sometimes) and put on my big girl pants — slightly wrinkled and definitely unglamorous, but I feel like I must if I want to keep going.

I guess that’s what life expects of you when it throws punches you never saw coming, and thus can never catch. You just learn how to stand there and take them, or dodge them, and somehow still stand.