06/27/2026
Sometimes the Best Thing We Can Do Is... Nothing
One of the questions I'm asked most often as a healthcare professional specializing in gerontology and memory care is:
"What do I do? My loved one won't shower. They won't participate in activities. They just sit there staring at the television. I can't do this anymore."
My answer often surprises people.
Yes, there may come a time when caregiving becomes more than one person can safely manage. There is no shame in recognizing that point.
But until then, ask yourself one simple question:
Is my loved one safe?
If they are safe, then ask yourself another question: Why do I feel that I must always be doing something?
One of the greatest lessons I've learned in memory care is that not every behavior requires us to fix it.
Sometimes, our loved ones simply need us to meet them where they are.
Every person living with dementia is unique. While we learn from common behaviors and research, we must never forget that every individual brings with them a lifetime of experiences, routines, personalities, fears, comforts, and memories. The person they were before the diagnosis often influences how they experience memory loss.
Instead of assuming we know why a behavior is occurring, we should observe more than we speculate.
One woman I had the privilege of caring for—I'll call her Miss Emily—wanted nothing to do with activities. She simply wanted to sit in her chair and watch television.
When she first joined my group, I let her.
Her family had trusted me to keep her safe. My responsibility wasn't to force participation; it was to provide compassionate care.
While I worked with the other residents, I quietly observed Miss Emily. Every day she sat in the same chair, watching the same television. Meals were placed in front of her, yet they often remained untouched. Whenever someone tried to redirect her away from that routine, she became distressed and began pacing.
I wondered what she needed—not what I wanted her to do.
One afternoon I approached her and asked, "Miss Emily, would you mind if I ate lunch with you today?"
She looked at me and answered with a single word.
"No."
The next day I asked again.
"May I sit with you today?"
This time she quietly replied, "Okay."
I sat beside her and ate my lunch.
She didn't touch hers.
The same thing happened the next day.
And the day after that.
I'll admit, I went home feeling discouraged.
Then Monday arrived.
I asked again if I could join her.
She agreed.
We sat together in silence. As I ate, I noticed her watching her plate. Without saying anything, I gently placed her fork into her mashed potatoes and continued eating my own meal.
A few moments later, she picked up her fork and began to eat.
Why? I honestly don't know.
Throughout my career, I had been taught that as dementia progresses, some individuals lose the connection between food and eating. Others may simply forget the sequence of what comes next.
Perhaps, in that quiet moment, seeing someone beside her was enough. Maybe she wasn't remembering what to do as much as responding to what she saw.
She wasn't being taught.
She was connecting.
From that day forward, eating together became our routine. We shared quiet lunches. There was no pressure. No constant conversation. No insistence that she participate in activities afterward. Once lunch was over, I returned to the group, and she returned to what felt familiar and safe.
Over time, trust grew.
Those first few months with Miss Emily taught me something I have carried throughout my career.
Sometimes the most therapeutic intervention isn't another activity, another reminder, or another attempt to redirect.
Sometimes it is simply our presence.
When someone enters memory care, we have removed them from nearly everything familiar—their home, their routines, their belongings, and often the people they recognize. Then we place them into an unfamiliar environment and expect them to adjust immediately.
That isn't realistic.
Imagine taking a young child to an enormous beach, surrounded by nothing but endless sand, and then walking away.
What would that child do?
They would likely become overwhelmed, frightened, and unsure of where to begin.
Individuals living with dementia often experience that same feeling when everything familiar disappears.
Before asking, "How do I get them to do more?"Perhaps we should first ask,
"How can I help them feel safe enough to simply be?"
Sometimes, healing doesn't begin with doing more. Sometimes it begins with quietly sitting beside someone, sharing a meal, and allowing trust to grow one silent moment at a time.
