Every training I teach.
Every family I meet.
Every consultation I have.
A piece of my dad is there.
I tell stories about him often because he was my greatest teacher. He taught me things no textbook ever could about dementia, caregiving, loss, and what it means to love someone whose brain is changing.
But there is part of our story that I don’t talk about nearly enough.
The truth is…
We weren’t the perfect family.
For more than seven years, my dad and I didn’t speak.
Seven years.
Looking back now, I sometimes wonder if the argument that drove us apart was more than just an argument. Was it the beginning of the dementia? Were there changes happening in his brain long before any of us recognized them?
The truth is…
I’ll never know.
And I’ve learned not to spend my life living in the “what ifs.”
Because the facts are enough.
For whatever reason, life brought my dad back into my world.
And almost immediately, I knew something wasn’t right.
His thinking had changed.
His memory wasn’t the same.
Something about the man standing in front of me was different.
In that moment, I had a choice.
I could continue holding onto the hurt I had carried for years.
Or…
I could choose him.
That wasn’t an easy decision.
People sometimes assume forgiveness happens in a single moment.
For me, it didn’t.
I cried.
I wrestled with the decision.
I questioned whether I was ready.
I had to let go of the relationship I wished we had and embrace the relationship we still could have.
And looking back…
It is one of the greatest decisions I have ever made.
Because dementia gave me something I never expected.
It gave me my dad back.
Not in the way either of us imagined.
Not without heartbreak.
Not without grief.
But it gave us another chance.
I had the privilege of rebuilding our relationship.
I got to advocate for him.
I got to laugh with him.
I got to sit beside him through the hard days.
I got to hold his hand.
I got to walk with him through every stage of his dementia journey.
And when his final chapter came…
I got to be there.
That is a gift I will never take for granted.
Do I wish we hadn’t lost those seven years?
Every single day.
Do I wish things had been different?
Of course.
There are moments when I think about all the memories we never made.
The birthdays we missed.
The conversations we never had.
The ordinary days that were stolen by distance and hurt.
Those thoughts still find me sometimes.
But they don’t define our story anymore.
Our story became one of grace.
One of second chances.
One of choosing love, even when it was complicated.
Today, people often thank me for helping them navigate dementia.
They tell me I have patience.
That I understand.
That I know what they’re going through.
The truth is…
Everything I know began with one man.
Richard Riggs.
He was my first teacher.
He taught me that dementia is never just about memory.
It’s about relationships.
It’s about loss.
It’s about forgiveness.
It’s about learning to meet someone where they are instead of wishing they were somewhere else.
He taught me that caregiving isn’t about perfection.
It’s about showing up.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Even when it’s hard.
Especially when it’s hard.
Every family I support carries a little piece of my dad’s legacy.
When I sit beside a daughter who is overwhelmed…
I remember being a daughter.
When I reassure a husband that he’s doing the best he can…
I remember what it felt like to question every decision.
When I teach caregivers to look beyond the disease and see the person…
I’m teaching what my dad unknowingly taught me.
People sometimes ask why I’m so passionate about this work.
The answer has never been found in my certifications.
Or my trainings.
Or my professional experience.
The answer is much simpler.
I do this because I loved a man named Richard Riggs.
A man who wasn’t perfect.
A father who wasn’t perfect.
A family that wasn’t perfect.
But love doesn’t require perfection.
Sometimes, it simply asks us to show up when we have the chance.
Every day I help another family, I do so in memory of my dad.
I hope that somewhere in the work I do, in every caregiver who leaves feeling a little less alone, in every person living with dementia who is treated with more dignity and compassion…
His story lives on.
And although I miss him every single day, I smile knowing that his life continues to make a difference in the lives of people he never had the chance to meet.
That may be the greatest legacy any of us could hope to leave.
In loving memory of Richard Riggs.
Thank you for being my dad.
Thank you for being my greatest teacher.
Everything I do is, and always will be, in your honor.
