Every Morning is New

My mom is in the early stages of dementia, which means we live in a space that feels both familiar and unfamiliar at once. Life now holds equal parts fear and fascination. She is still very much herself—telling strangers “I love you,” offering warmth without hesitation. And yet, at times, she shifts into the alter ego I’ve come to call Nurse Ratchet.

Time doesn’t always move for her the way it does for the rest of us.

Last year, just before the passing of her husband, I had to move her into an assisted living facility. If you knew my mother, you would understand how monumental that decision was. Independence was never just a preference for her—it was part of her identity.

To ease the transition, the facility allowed us to stay in a respite room for a week before she moved into her permanent apartment. I stayed with her during that time, hoping to lessen the anxiety, the shock, and the fear that come with realizing your life is changing in ways you didn’t choose.

And every morning, she follows the same routine.

When it’s time to go to the cafeteria for breakfast…

She stands up. She reaches for her walker.

And I gently remind her, “You should take your scooter.”

She pauses. “Oh,” she says, surprised. “I have a scooter?”

“Yes,” I tell her. “You do.”

Her face lights up. “Did you get this for me?” she asks.

“Yes, Mom.”

“Wow,” she says, almost in awe. “Thank you. I love my boys so much. Y’all take such good care of me.”

And every morning, she means it with her whole heart.

Here’s the part no one really prepares you for: this is the same conversation we’ve had every day for the past week. The same words. The same questions. The same reactions.

If I’m being honest, it’s tempting for that repetition to turn into frustration. To feel worn down by the predictability of it. To think, We just talked about this yesterday… and the day before that… and the day before that.

Dementia has a way of testing your patience quietly, relentlessly.

But one morning, something shifted in me.

I realized that while the conversation was repetitive to me, it was brand new to her. Every single time.

Her gratitude wasn’t recycled. Her surprise wasn’t diminished. Her love wasn’t diluted by memory. She wakes up each morning genuinely thankful. Genuinely moved. Genuinely aware that she is cared for.

And it made me stop and wonder.

How different would my life be if I could wake up with a new perspective every morning?

What if I didn’t carry yesterday’s frustrations into today?

What if I didn’t rehearse old annoyances before my feet even hit the floor?

What if I refused to let yesterday steal today’s peace?

How much more thankful would I be if I treated the ordinary gifts of my life—mobility, care, love, provision—as something to be noticed again instead of assumed?

Dementia is a hard road. It brings grief, exhaustion, and a deep sense of loss that shows up long before goodbye. There are days when it hurts to watch pieces of my mom’s independence fade. Days when the future feels heavy and uncertain.

But somehow, in the middle of this difficult journey, she is teaching me something I didn’t expect.

She is teaching me how to be present.

How to receive without entitlement.

How to say thank you like it actually matters.

Every morning, my mom wakes up to a world that feels new.

And every morning, she responds with gratitude.

Maybe peace isn’t about having a perfect memory.

Maybe it’s about having a willing heart.

One that chooses not to cling to yesterday.

One that recognizes love when it shows up.

One that says thank you—even if it’s the first time all over again.