I remember the room.
It was one of those hospital consultation rooms that feels more industrial than human—cold lighting, stiff chairs, and a table that looked as if it had hosted far too many difficult conversations. It was July of 2013, and around that table sat my grandmother, Helen, my grandfather, my mom, my aunt, and me.
But the truth is, the feeling of being alone had started long before we ever sat down in that room.
For months we had been watching my grandmother experience moments that simply weren’t her—circumstances, behaviors, and confusing incidents that none of us could explain. We knew something was wrong, but we didn’t yet have words for it. We were worried, confused, and quietly carrying the weight of uncertainty.
So when the doctor finally entered the consultation room that day, we were desperate for clarity.
He did not sit long. He looked at my grandmother and said, almost matter-of-factly, “Helen, you have Lewy Body Dementia and Alzheimer’s.”
And then he left.
No explanation. No roadmap. No gentle unfolding of what would come next—just a diagnosis that seemed to echo in the quiet room after the door closed.
Eventually we gathered our things and made our way to the car. The drive home was mostly silent. No one said much, but the silence said enough. Each of us was carrying something heavy. Though we didn’t say it out loud, I knew we all felt it.
We felt alone.
Because I loved my grandmother so deeply, I couldn’t simply sit with that feeling. That night, after we returned home, I opened my computer and began searching. What was Lewy Body Dementia? What was Alzheimer’s? What did this mean for her—for us?
Hour after hour I read everything I could find.
Somewhere in the middle of that long night, I came across the Alzheimer’s Association.
What I discovered there changed everything.
By the next afternoon, I had scheduled a meeting with a local Alzheimer’s Association representative. When we walked into that meeting, something shifted. For the first time since the diagnosis, we were met not just with information—but with understanding.
Suddenly we realized we were not the only ones walking this road.
Over the next three years, now that we finally had a name for what was happening, we discovered something that became incredibly important to our family: belonging. Through the Alzheimer’s Association, we found connection. We found guidance. We found people who understood what it meant to love someone whose mind was changing. We found people who knew the exhaustion, the confusion, the grief, and even the unexpected moments of grace that come with caregiving.
Most importantly, we discovered we were not alone.
In the years since that diagnosis in 2013, I found myself drawn deeper and deeper into that community—what I often think of as a community of warriors standing together against the overwhelming fog of what many call “The Long Goodbye.”
I immersed myself in that work. I became an advocate at the local, state, and national levels. I helped plan events and informational classes to help families navigate the difficult road of dementia and Alzheimer’s. I collected iPods for the Music & Memory program, helping bring familiar songs back into the lives of those whose memories were fading.
And during my time as a chaplain intern, I was blessed with the opportunity to provide spiritual care to those living with Alzheimer’s and other dementias. I sat beside them in song, in prayer, and sometimes in art—discovering the many ways their minds could still be opened and their hearts touched.
Perhaps the greatest lesson our family learned during those years came through caring for my grandmother herself. We discovered that the best way to help her experience belonging was simply to meet her wherever she was in that moment. If she believed we were in another decade, we didn’t correct her—we joined her there. If music brought her joy, we sang. If prayer brought peace, we prayed. If laughter appeared in the middle of confusion, we welcomed it.
Belonging, we learned, is not about forcing someone back into our reality. Sometimes belonging is simply about loving someone enough to step into theirs.
My grandmother died in 2016. Yet even today, the community we discovered during that difficult season continues to shape my life.
In fact, as I write these words, I am returning home from representing the Open and Affirming Coalition of the United Church of Christ at the Alzheimer’s Association’s Community Leaders Summit. In 2024, the Coalition began a partnership with the Alzheimer’s Association to help ensure that members of the LGBTQ+ community—whether they are living with Alzheimer’s themselves or caring for someone who is—can find another level of belonging, support, and community.
For me, this work feels deeply personal. Somehow three important parts of my life have come together in this moment: being a pastor, being a gay man, and being an advocate who once helped care for his grandmother through Alzheimer’s.
What once felt like one of the loneliest seasons of my life has now become part of the way I help others find connection.
And that, I believe, is the quiet miracle of belonging.
Belonging is not only something we search for when life is easy. Often, belonging is something we discover when life becomes difficult—when the road grows uncertain and we realize we were never meant to walk it alone.
Belonging is the hand that reaches across the table in a quiet hospital room.
It is the voice that says, “We understand. We’ve been there too.”
It is the community that gathers around us in our hardest seasons and gently reminds us that even in the fog, we are still seen, still known, and still loved.
A Moment for Reflection
As you reflect on your own life, you might consider:
- When have you experienced a season that made you feel alone?
- Who helped you realize you didn’t have to carry that season by yourself?
- Where have you discovered unexpected belonging?
- Is there someone in your life right now who might need help finding their own sense of community?
- If you are feeling alone in this season of life, where might you begin seeking connection or support?
- What might it look like to take one small step toward belonging—for yourself or for someone else?
The Center for Abundant Aging exists to help people discover exactly this kind of connection—because none of us are meant to age in isolation. We age best when we age together. And when we help one another find belonging, we create the kind of community where all of us can truly age abundantly.
And sometimes the most sacred work we can do in this life is simply to make sure no one has to walk through the fog alone.
