Every Tuesday morning, Lillian arrives at JSL with a smile. She slips on an apron, makes sandwiches in the Bistro, chats with staff, and laughs at someone’s joke. For a couple of hours, she is simply another volunteer. Then she quietly hangs up her apron, thanks everyone, and returns home to care for her husband, who is living with dementia.

Most people see the volunteer.

I see the caregiver.

Every day I work with families whose lives have been changed by dementia. I see devoted husbands, wives, sons, daughters, and friends doing everything they can to care for someone they love. Lillian is one of them, and her story reminds me that caregiving often happens quietly, without recognition.

When someone is diagnosed with mild cognitive impairment (MCI), life doesn’t stop. Families continue making plans, celebrating milestones, and finding reasons to laugh.

But MCI quietly enters a relationship. It changes conversations, routines, and expectations. Caregiving often begins long before a diagnosis of dementia, with small moments that leave families wondering what tomorrow will bring.

Caregiving is undeniably difficult, but it isn’t defined only by hardship. There are moments of tenderness, humor, and deep connection. A favorite song still brings harmony, even when a few words are forgotten. Patience and gratitude become invaluable.

Caregivers shoulder one of life’s most demanding roles. There are no days off and no vacations from responsibility. People living with dementia experience the world differently, and every caregiver learns to adapt—often without training, enough support, or time to process the grief of gradually losing someone who is still physically present.

That grief is unlike any other. Families mourn pieces of the person they love long before they are gone. They miss conversations they’ll never have again while celebrating small victories that become precious.

Many caregivers become isolated. Friends aren’t sure what to say. Invitations become difficult to accept. Sleep is interrupted, worry becomes constant, and even simple errands require careful planning.

Yet, the caring continues. They prepare meals, manage medications, attend appointments, calm fears, and answer the same question repeatedly with remarkable patience.

Sometimes, like Lillian, they come to volunteer at JSL.

Volunteering offers something many caregivers desperately need… a brief return to normal life. A chance to be known for who they are, not just who they care for. An opportunity to laugh, contribute, and connect before returning home to the responsibilities waiting for them.

Caregivers are remarkably resilient, but resilience should never be mistaken for endless strength. Behind every capable caregiver is someone who is often exhausted, emotionally drained, and quietly wondering if they’re doing enough.

They deserve more than our admiration. They deserve understanding, practical support, opportunities to rest, and permission to care for themselves without guilt.

The next time you meet someone caring for a loved one with dementia, ask how they’re doing and be prepared to listen. Offer to stay with their loved one while they take a walk or go work out. Drop off a meal. Share a cup of coffee. Small acts of kindness can make an enormous difference.

Working at JSL has taught me that while dementia changes the life of the person living with the disease, it also transforms the lives of everyone who loves them.

Their stories deserve to be told. Their courage deserves to be seen.

Shabbat Shalom