DEMENTIA is one of those words that frightens us almost instantly. We hear statistics about its growing prevalence and picture only decline: fading memories, lost independence and disappearing identities.
But I sometimes wonder whether the most frightening part of dementia is not the diagnosis itself, but the story we have built around it.
For too long, that story has been one of despair. It tells us that people living with dementia become burdens, that they slowly disappear from their relationships and communities, and that personhood fades with memory.
Yesterday made me question that story.
It was an ordinary Wednesday. Hazy, hot and humid. We were sitting together over tea.
Some of us live with dementia. Some of us have other challenges. If we’re honest, all of us have something we’re carrying.
To an outsider, we may have looked chaotic. One person thought they were back in school. Another wondered when their children would come home. Conversations drifted in unexpected directions.
But if you stayed long enough, something else became obvious.
We were teasing one another. We were laughing, mostly at my terrible Mandarin pronunciation. There was joy. There was connection.
Perhaps most strikingly, nobody was glued to a phone. Nobody was documenting the moment for social media.
We were simply together.
These are the very people society often sidelines because they no longer fit our narrow definition of a “proper” functioning adult. Their world gradually becomes smaller.
Here, it doesn’t have to.
Here, they can speak without constantly being corrected. They can laugh without worrying whether they’re making perfect sense. We simply spend time together.
That simple act reminded me how disconnected many of us have become. We sit beside family members while staring at separate screens. We wait in supermarket queues without speaking to the person next to us.
Yet somehow we consider that perfectly normal.
One moment from yesterday stays with me.
One of my clients reminded me that I’d promised her a facial.
I’d completely forgotten.
When I first met her, she was withdrawn. She kept saying she was useless, that she had become a burden to her family and that she wished to die.
She had once been a respected midwife serving rural communities in Perak. She had even been recognised by the Sultan for her contribution.
Now, at 90 and living with dementia, she believed none of that mattered anymore.
But something had changed.
Without thinking twice, I gathered my things and became a beautician for the afternoon.
Someone found a hair clip. As I cleaned her face and applied the mask, everyone joined in.
One person said her face looked brighter.
Another predicted she’d sleep well that night.
Someone joked she didn’t need to wash her face again until tomorrow.
We laughed together.
It was such a small gesture.
But it meant everything.
Her request wasn’t really about skincare. It meant she still cared about herself. She still wanted to feel good. She was still participating in life.
Perhaps even more importantly, she was beginning to realise she wasn’t simply a burden.
People enjoyed her company.
People noticed her.
People cared.
Isn’t that what all of us want?
We chase likes, edit photos and search for validation in countless ways. Maybe we’re not so different after all.
People living with dementia still long for friendship, laughter, beauty and belonging. They don’t stop being human because they communicate differently.
There may not yet be a cure for dementia but perhaps we can begin by changing the world in which people live with it.
Maybe dementia has something important to teach us (not that humanity is inevitably lost, of course).
But that, sometimes, it can be found again through something as ordinary as sharing tea, laughing together or keeping a promise about a facial. ‒ Aug 28, 2026
Dr Cecilia Chan is a gerontologist and dementia advocate.
The views expressed are solely of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of Focus Malaysia.
Main image: Homage Malaysia
