“Surrender does not equate to defeat. It’s about releasing the facade of mastery.” ~Judith Orloff
Observing my mother decline in memory while I was also losing mine felt like a harsh glimpse into what awaited me—until I realized that my narrative was shaped more by stress than by genetic fate.
It was 3:47 a.m.—once again. I had been awake since 2:13, and prior to that, I had perhaps rested for ten minutes.
This had been my ritual for years: waking shortly after drifting off, checking the time, and lying there in frustration.
Wake again, check the clock, reflect on the previous day, and strategize for tomorrow.
Yet tonight felt distinct. Lying in darkness, a thought seized me with dread: What if I never sleep again? Sleep is crucial for cognitive health, and I might end up suffering from dementia.
My mom dealt with dementia in her early seventies. Here I was at fifty, in perimenopause, struggling with sleep, and already misplacing words and names I used every single day.
The insomnia wasn’t sudden; it crept in gradually. It began with interrupted sleep from caring for a newborn and then transitioned into trouble falling asleep during perimenopause.
Stress hormones propelled my days spent in a bustling clinic while raising my family. By the time night came, I was entirely hyperactive.
By the time I hit fifty, I was surviving on twenty minutes of restless sleep each night. I’d lost the memory of what it feels like to be truly rested.
I attempted dietary changes and natural sleep aids. I consulted sleep experts and tested different medications. Cognitive behavioral therapy and hormone replacement therapy offered some minor relief.
As time went on, I struggled to recognize my neighbors’ faces. Sometimes I would have difficulty recalling my family’s names, and my focus was slipping during critical presentations.
With insomnia and anxiety about my memory decline, I found myself snapping at my partner and experiencing bouts of anger. I couldn’t see a path forward.
And then came the diagnosis: my mother had dementia.
We had been apart for nearly twenty years. I learned of her illness through a phone call from a worried neighbor on the opposite coast.
Mom was forgetting, and I was terrified that the same fate awaited me.
Control was not a choice; it was a legacy handed down to me.
As a child, being around my mother felt like tiptoeing on fragile shells. She was a single parent, and her mental health was so unstable that she exerted control over everything and everyone just to navigate her day.
I discovered that when emotions ran high or circumstances felt overwhelming, control could