October 24, 2026
Mom has always loved babies.
There is something about her that naturally draws children, toddlers, and babies into her world. She has a way of making them giggle, bringing smiles to their little faces, and helping them feel safe in her presence. Children just know when they are in the presence of someone who loves them, and they gravitate to the gentleness in her voice, the warmth of her smile, and the patience she has always carried in her heart.
When we were babies and learning to walk, Mom and Dad were right there to guide us.
When their grandchildren were learning to walk, they were right there. Mom would hold their tiny hands, patiently guiding them through those first uncertain steps. One foot forward, then another. Sometimes they stumbled, sometimes they stopped, and sometimes they simply wanted to be held. But she never rushed them. She celebrated their progress, no matter how small, and offered a steady hand whenever they needed one.
Today, Mom has her own version of those baby steps.
She uses her rollator to help her walk, and there is always someone nearby to assist her along the way. It might take me ten steps to cross from one side of the room to the other, but it takes Mom thirty. Her head hangs forward with determination as she concentrates on each movement. Sometimes she becomes winded and needs to stop and rest before continuing.
I watch her, and I think about those little grandchildren whose hands she once held.
The woman who once steadied their tiny bodies as they learned to walk now needs someone to steady her. The hands that once reached down to help little ones find their balance now reach for the support of her rollator and the reassuring presence of someone beside her.
There is a tenderness in this reversal that words can hardly explain.
Dementia has changed so much about Mom’s life, and the physical challenges that accompany this season have added another layer to our journey. There are things she can no longer do with the ease she once knew. Even crossing a room has become a task that requires concentration, patience, and strength.
Yet when she reaches a resting place, she looks up.
And she smiles.
Not with the frustration I might feel if a simple task suddenly required three times the effort. She looks up with a quiet gratitude for having made it across the room.
Her smile reminds me of the delight on a child’s face after taking those first independent steps. That wonderful expression that says, “Look what I did“!
She has made it across the room. She has completed the task before her. And for that moment, it is enough.
Our culture today wants everything “on demand”. We miss the beauty of a small accomplishment because we are too focused on how long it takes us to get there. We measure our progress by speed, distance, and efficiency. We compare today’s abilities with yesterday’s strength and become discouraged when we can no longer do what once came naturally.
But Mom is teaching me that progress does not have to be fast to be meaningful. A journey does not lose its value because it takes longer than expected. And there is no shame in stopping to rest before taking the next step.
The victory is not in how quickly we reach the other side of the room.
The victory is simply that we keep going.
Scripture reminds us in Isaiah 40:31,“But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.”
I have always loved this verse, and watching Mom has given it a more personal meaning. Renewal does not always look like running or soaring. It looks like finding the strength to take one more step. Resting when our bodies are tired and trusting that we will be given what we need for the journey ahead.
God’s grace comes through the person standing beside us, offering a hand, waiting patiently, and reminding us that we do not have to make the journey alone.
Today, Dad took his first baby steps, too.
He joined me at my Grief Share support group.
For some, walking into a room filled with people who have gathered to talk about grief might seem like an ordinary thing. But I know that when you have spent so much time carrying sorrow quietly, allowing yourself to enter a place where that sorrow can be shared takes courage.
Dad has spent so much of his life being the steady one. He has loved Mom through decades of marriage, and now he is learning how to navigate a season neither of them could have imagined. He carries the responsibilities of caregiving, the uncertainty of dementia, and the heartache of watching the woman he loves change before his eyes.
There are things a husband can share with his wife, and there are things he must carry because she may no longer be able to understand or remember them. There are moments when the grief is too complicated to explain, even to the people who love him most.
Caregiving can become a lonely wilderness. Not necessarily because people are absent, but because the experience itself can be difficult for others to understand. The world continues moving at its familiar pace while a caregiver’s world may revolve around medications, meals, appointments, changing abilities, and the quiet losses that arrive one day at a time.
I see that the person who needs care is not the only one who needs someone to reach for their hand.
Dad’s first step into Grief Share showed me that even the strongest among us need a place to rest. He, too, deserves the opportunity to be heard, to be understood, and to receive comfort without feeling that he must always be the one providing it.
It’s refreshing to sit among a community of people who gather not because they have all the answers, but because they understand the questions. They come with different stories, different losses, and different circumstances, yet they share a common understanding that grief can be heavy and that no one should have to carry it alone.
In that room, there is no need to pretend that everything is fine. There is room for tears, room for silence, and room for the words that have been waiting a long time to be spoken. There is comfort in discovering that someone else understands the ache you thought you had to explain. There is healing in listening to another person’s story and recognizing pieces of your own.
Community does not take away our grief. It gives us somewhere safe to bring it.
And that is exactly what a weary heart needs.
We may not be able to change the circumstances that brought us together, but we can remind one another that sorrow does not have to be faced in isolation. We can pray together, listen without judgment, and offer hope when someone else’s supply has run low. We can sit beside one another in the difficult places and trust that God can use even our brokenness to help another person feel less alone.
I thought about Mom and her baby steps as Dad joined me today. I thought about how we celebrate a child’s first attempt to walk, how we hold out our hands and encourage them to come a little farther. We do not expect them to cross the entire room the first time. We celebrate the courage it took to begin.
Why should it be any different for Dad?
Today, his first step was not across a room. It was into a community where he could begin to share the weight of his grief. It was a willingness to be present, to receive support, and to discover that he does not have to be strong every moment of every day.
That is what baby steps look like for grown-ups.
They look like asking for help.
They look like walking through a door we have hesitated to enter.
They look like sitting among strangers who may become companions on a difficult journey.
And they look like allowing ourselves to be cared for.
I think about their grandchildren again, learning to walk beneath the watchful eyes of “Grammy”. Mom never expected them to master walking in a single afternoon. She understood that every little step was part of a greater accomplishment. She knew when to encourage them, when to steady them, and when to let them rest in her arms.
Now, it is our turn to offer her that same patience.
And Dad deserves it, too.
We can walk beside Mom without rushing. We can allow her the time she needs. We can celebrate the distance she travels rather than measure the steps it takes to get there. And when she pauses to catch her breath, we can wait with her, knowing that the pause is not a failure.
We can offer Dad that same grace. We can encourage him to find support, to make room for his own sorrow, and to recognize that receiving help is not a sign of weakness. It is an act of courage.
It is part of the journey.
This is one of the unexpected gifts of loving someone with dementia. In the midst of loss, we are invited to rediscover the things that matter most. We learn to slow down. We begin to notice the smallest victories. We find ourselves celebrating moments we might once have overlooked.
A smile.
A steady step.
A hand reaching for ours.
The simple joy of making it across the room.
The courage to walk into a support group.
The comfort of discovering that someone else understands.
These moments may seem small to the world, but within the walls of our lives, they are worthy of celebration.
As I watch Mom take her baby steps, I am reminded that love is not always about leading someone toward a destination. Love is about walking beside her at her pace. It is about lending strength when she is tired, offering reassurance when the way feels uncertain.
That is what God does for us, too.
He does not demand that we run when we can barely walk. He does not turn away when we need to rest. He meets us in our weakness and gives us grace for the step directly in front of us.
So, I will keep walking beside Mom.
I will celebrate the little victories, cherish the smiles that rise during her moments of rest, and remember the mother who once held tiny hands and patiently guided her grandchildren into the world of walking.
And I will walk beside Dad, too, celebrating his willingness to take a step toward community and comfort. I will remind him that he does not have to carry every burden by himself, that there are people willing to listen, and that God provides the strength we need through the presence of others.
And in a community gathered in love today, Dad reminded our weary hearts that even as we navigate the winding roads of this journey, there is still scenery.
In the soft light of an ordinary day, I found Heaven’s grace in the smallest things: in the patience to wait, the courage to continue, the willingness to ask for help, and the love that never lets go of our hand.
Some journeys are measured in miles. Others are measured in baby steps. But the most beautiful journeys are measured in love, strengthened by faith, and made lighter by the people who walk beside us.
One step at a time, Mom.
One step at a time, Dad.
We are right here beside you.
