When someone with dementia doesn't recognise you, and what to say

By Lee-Ann Clark · 8 years in dementia and Alzheimer's care

If you've just had the moment where your mum or dad looked at you like a stranger, maybe just for a few seconds, maybe for longer, I'm sorry. It's one of the hardest moments in this whole journey, and nothing quite prepares you for it the first time.

I've sat with it more times than I can count, in living rooms, in care homes, holding someone's hand while they searched my face for a name that wasn't coming. I've also watched families crumble trying to force the recognition back, because nobody told them what was actually happening underneath it.

What's actually happening

Dementia doesn't erase memories in order of importance. It erases them roughly in reverse order of when they were formed, the newest memories go first, the oldest hold on longest. So the version of you living furthest back in their memory, sometimes a child, sometimes younger than you are now, may simply not be filed anywhere they can currently reach. You haven't disappeared. The filing system has changed.

What to say instead of correcting them

Resist the urge to say "it's me, don't you know me?" It rarely brings recognition back, and it can leave them frightened, confused about why a stranger seems upset with them.

Instead, try:

• Introduce yourself gently, without demanding they place you. "Hello, I'm Lee, I've come to see you today." This takes the pressure off entirely.
• Lean on connection, not identity. "I'm a friend, I'm here to keep you company." Warmth doesn't require them to know your name.
• If they ask who you are directly, answer simply and move on. "I'm Lee, I look after you." Then redirect, a cup of tea, something to look at together.
• Let them lead if they think you're someone else. If they call you by a sibling's name, or their own mother's, there's often no need to correct it. Answering as that person, gently, can be kinder than a correction that only distresses them.

For you, afterwards

This is the part nobody warns you about: the grief that comes with being unrecognised by someone who raised you, or married you, or has known you your whole life. That grief is real and it deserves space. You're allowed to cry in the car afterwards. You're allowed to find this one of the hardest parts. Being unrecognised doesn't mean you've been forgotten in the way that matters, the presence, the comfort, the safety you bring, that still lands, even when your name doesn't.

You might also find this useful: Why someone with dementia keeps asking to go home, and what to say · Or read about why the late afternoon gets harder, and what actually helps.