How I handle Unhelpful Advice

Hello, welcome to another moment of clarity.

One of the hardest parts of caring for someone with dementia has not always been the dementia itself. Sometimes it has been the noise around it. The opinions. The comments said too casually. The advice handed out in waiting rooms, over cups of tea, or in supermarket aisles by people who mean well but do not really understand what life looks like behind your front door.

I used to take every piece of advice to heart. I thought maybe someone else had found the answer I was missing. Maybe there was a better way to calm Mum when she became frightened in the evenings. Maybe there was a way to stop the repeated questions from wearing me down. Maybe I was doing something wrong.

Over time, I realised that a lot of advice comes from discomfort. People want to fix what they cannot fully sit with. Dementia makes many people uneasy because it does not follow the neat rules they expect from illness. It shifts constantly. What works one day might completely fail the next.

Now, when advice comes my way, I try to meet it with a quieter mind. Some of it helps. Some of it hurts. Most of it says more about the speaker than it does about the person living with dementia.

“You just need to correct her”

One of the earliest pieces of advice I received was to keep correcting Mum whenever she became confused.

“If she says something wrong, you should remind her of the truth.”

At first, I tried.

If she thought her own mother was still alive, I gently explained that she had passed many years ago. If she forgot what year it was, I corrected her. If she insisted she needed to “go home” while sitting in the house she had lived in for decades, I tried reasoning with her.

It usually ended in distress.

I remember one afternoon in particular. Mum became convinced she needed to leave because her parents would be worried about her. I reminded her, carefully and softly, that they were gone. I watched the grief hit her like brand new news. The pain on her face was immediate and real. A few minutes later, she had forgotten the conversation completely, but the sadness lingered in her body.

That was the moment I stopped treating every confusion like a problem to solve.

Now I understand that emotional truth matters more than factual accuracy most days. I no longer feel the need to drag her back into reality every time her mind drifts elsewhere.

Sometimes comfort matters more than correction.

“Have you tried keeping her busy?”

People often suggest activities as though dementia can be managed with enough puzzles and colouring books.

“Maybe she just needs stimulation.”

“Have you tried memory games?”

“Keep her busy and she’ll settle.”

There is truth inside some of that. Routine can help. Gentle activities can bring comfort. Mum still enjoys folding towels with me or sitting in the garden listening to birds. But dementia is not boredom. Agitation is not always solved with entertainment.

There were days when I felt exhausted from trying to create the perfect calm environment. Music playing softly. Fresh tea made. Television off. A simple activity ready at the table. Then suddenly, for reasons none of us could understand, she would become frightened or angry anyway.

I used to feel like I had failed.

Now I know that dementia has currents underneath it that cannot always be seen. Hunger, pain, fear, exhaustion, overstimulation, shadows moving across the room, even a strange noise outside can change everything within minutes.

Sometimes there is no perfect response. Sometimes sitting quietly beside someone is enough.

Ordinary moments like folding towels often carry more comfort than complicated solutions.

The Advice That Sounds Like Judgment

Some advice does not arrive gently at all.

“You need to be more patient.”

“You shouldn’t let it upset you.”

“You must stay positive.”

Those comments used to stay with me for days.

What people often do not see is that patience is not an endless resource. It gets worn thin at three in the morning when she has asked the same question forty times and neither of us has slept. It wears down after difficult appointments, medication changes, incontinence accidents, wandering episodes, and the slow grief of watching someone disappear in pieces while still sitting right in front of you.

I remember once feeling close to tears in a pharmacy queue after Mum became distressed because she did not recognise me for a few moments. Someone nearby smiled politely and said, “You just have to stay cheerful for her.”

I know they meant well.

But there are days when caregiving feels heavy. Pretending otherwise does not make it easier.

I have learned that allowing myself honesty is healthier than forcing constant positivity. Some days are beautiful. Some are heartbreaking. Most are both at once.

Caregivers carry more than most people realise.

Learning What To Keep

Not all advice is harmful. Some of the most helpful guidance has come quietly from people living the same reality.

A woman once told me, “If something works today, let it work today. Don’t worry about tomorrow yet.”

That stayed with me.

Another carer told me she stopped arguing about whether her husband had already eaten lunch. Instead, she would simply sit with him and share a small snack again if he asked. It reduced both of their stress instantly.

The useful advice rarely sounds dramatic. It usually sounds gentle, practical, and deeply human.

A few things I now hold onto are:

• Protecting calm matters more than winning an argument.

• Rest matters even when guilt tells you otherwise.

• You are allowed to step outside for five quiet minutes.

• Small moments of connection still count.

These are not rules. Just things I have learned slowly, often the hard way.

The quietest advice often stays the longest.

Letting Go of the Need to Explain

One thing I no longer do very often is defend my choices.

In the beginning, I explained everything. Why I redirected conversations instead of correcting Mum. Why routines mattered. Why certain outings became impossible. Why some visits left her exhausted.

I wanted people to understand.

Now I accept that some people never fully will unless they live it themselves.

Dementia caregiving exists in a strange emotional space. From the outside, moments can look simple or manageable. Inside the experience, they can feel incredibly fragile. A ten-minute conversation can shape the entire mood of a day. A small confusion can spiral into panic. A calm morning can suddenly become difficult without warning.

I have stopped measuring my caregiving against outside opinions.

The people who truly understand rarely offer sharp advice anyway. More often, they sit beside you and say something simple like, “That sounds hard.”

And honestly, that helps far more.

I've closed the book on needing to explain every decision I make

A Closing Thought

I think unhelpful advice used to affect me so deeply because I was already questioning myself. Dementia caregiving comes with so much uncertainty that it is easy to wonder whether someone else might know better.

But over time, I have learned to trust the quieter knowledge that grows inside daily care. The small instincts. The familiar rhythms. The understanding built through thousands of ordinary moments no one else sees.

Most caregivers are doing far better than they believe they are.

If you are caring for someone with dementia, there is a good chance you are already carrying enough without also carrying everyone else’s opinions. Some advice can be welcomed gently. Some can simply be let go.

Both are allowed.

Until next time,

James

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Have you ever received advice during caregiving that stayed with you, either for good reasons or difficult ones? If it feels comfortable, you are always welcome to share your experience in the comments. I sometimes share quieter moments from this journey on Instagram too, for anyone who finds comfort in these small conversations that continue beyond the page.