Held in the
Vanishing

I didn't set out to write a book.

I was simply writing in my journal as a way to make sense of what I was living.

Journaling has always been a place where I explore my fear, doubt, and pain, revealing something more honest within them—and sometimes even something beautiful. Reading back what I've written allows me to see my experiences through a different lens, opening new ways of understanding what I've lived.

As my parents' worlds slowly changed through different forms of dementia, I kept writing. Not because I thought anyone would read it, but because it helped me remain with what was unfolding.

Six years after my first journal entry about my parents, I realized that somewhere in those quiet pages, I had met my authentic self. And as I changed, so did the way I encountered the world.

Held in the Vanishing is the memoir that emerged from that transformation.

I didn't write this memoir because I had found answers. I wrote it because I wanted to bear witness to what love looked like as it changed shape—to remember what might otherwise have been forgotten, and to honor what remained.

And eventually, I realized I wanted to share it.

Because caregiving can be profoundly lonely, even when we are surrounded by people who love us. There are thoughts we are ashamed to admit, emotions we believe we shouldn't feel, and truths we learn to keep to ourselves.

I wanted to make room for those truths.

My hope is that somewhere in these pages, caregivers will recognize something of themselves—their love and grief, but also their anger, resentment, exhaustion, guilt, tenderness, and even their longing for it all to be over. I hope they feel seen and understood. Less alone. And perhaps a little more willing to give themselves permission to say the things we think we're not supposed to say.

I also hope this story offers a glimpse into the often unseen cost of caregiving—the ways it can quietly reshape our time, our relationships, our work, and our sense of self. Not so that others will understand an experience they haven't lived, but so they might understand it a little more deeply.

Because sometimes the greatest comfort isn't an answer.

It's recognizing ourselves in someone else's story—and discovering that we are not alone.