When my dad got sick five years ago, we all knew my mom couldn’t stay in their big house on her own. Managing the bills, maintaining everything, and facing the quiet of living alone wasn’t something any of us wanted for her. My dad was a planner, and before he passed, he made sure my mom wouldn’t be alone. We were about to become housemates again.

Mom moved in about a year after Dad died, and having her with us truly felt like a blessing. She cooked meals, played games with CJ, helped watch the kids when I needed it, and was always there to listen on the hard days. Just knowing she was nearby brought a sense of comfort. There’s something special about having your mom so close. Her transition into our home was seamless, and we were grateful to have her as part of our daily life.

The summer after she moved in we felt a shift. Mom started forgetting things and she seemed out of it at times. Her excuse was always that she was tired but we all knew it was more than that. Meals she had made a thousand times were suddenly missing key ingredients, she was spending less time with the kids, and when she would share her daily activities she would leave important parts out making it unclear at times what she was trying to say.

There was a real concern, and deep down mom felt it too. She agreed to see a neurologist and have some testing done to see what was going on. Physically mom was doing amazing. After months of appointments, testing, and searching for answers, we finally learned what was happening. Mom was diagnosed with Frontotemporal Dementia (FTD)—a progressive, incurable disease that affects the frontal and temporal lobes of the brain. Those areas control personality, behavior, judgment, emotions, and language. The earliest signs can often look different from the memory loss many people associate with dementia.

That was about four years ago, and since then, things have progressed as we knew they eventually would. In the beginning, the changes were small. We noticed them, but if you weren’t paying close attention, you could easily brush them off as simple forgetfulness.

The declines that followed were much more significant, and the truth is, mom just isn’t mom in the same way anymore. Some days, I’m her beautiful daughter. Other days, I’m simply a great friend. The relationship may look different now, but the love is always there. Life has changed, and we’ve learned to love each other within this new version of it.

I’m not sharing this to make you feel sorry for me or mom. She has lived a beautiful life and continues to be cherished by so many people. I was blessed with forty wonderful years during which she gave everything she had to her family. Now, it’s my turn to give back to her and make the time she has left with us as peaceful, meaningful, and wonderful as possible.

I’m sharing our story because, as much as FTD sucks, it isn’t a dirty secret that needs to be hidden. And most importantly, mom is still a person. She’s still a woman who loves being around people, telling stories from her past, laughing with the people she loves, and beating anyone willing to challenge her to a game of War. FTD has changed so much, but it hasn’t changed the fact that she still deserves to be seen, included, loved, and celebrated.

I can’t promise that if you visit or call, mom will know exactly who you are. Honestly, chances are she won’t. What I can promise is that she’ll welcome the conversation and happily chat with you for hours. She’ll smile, offer you some stale pretzels, and probably try to send you home with a pair of shoes from her massive collection.

She’ll tell you stories that may not make much sense and somehow convince you that she personally knows Jimmy Dean, the sausage king, whom she apparently has a very strong dislike for. But more than anything, she’ll make you smile. She’ll bring you joy, because that’s simply what being around her does.

And if it isn’t my mom, think about someone in your own life who may be struggling. Make the time. Take the trip. Pick up the phone. Sit with them. Create new memories while you still have the chance.

I will always adore the “old” version of mom and cherish every memory of who she was, but I’ve also learned there is something incredibly special about who she is now. She may be different, but she is still here, and there is still so much love, laughter, and life left to share with her.