
A caregiver's perspective on balancing safety with the desire for independence.
When someone you love starts needing more care, the balance between independence and safety becomes one of the hardest things to navigate. You want to protect them from harm, but you also want to protect their freedom, their joy, and the parts of life that still make them feel like themselves.
In our family, movement is essential. One of my loved ones, who lives with Alzheimer’s disease, has always been a very physical person. Walks are grounding and calming, an essential rhythm in the day. After a series of falls, including a fractured pelvis, we had to start thinking differently. But stopping movement altogether wasn’t an option. She still needs it physically and emotionally. We just needed to make it safer.
Now, she always walks with a partner and uses a rollator. There was resistance at first because it felt like giving something up. But then a specialist said something that reframed it completely:
That stuck with all of us. It’s not a restriction. It’s a tool for freedom. Her safety matters deeply. So does her ability to stay connected to the world, her body, and her routines.
My dad lives with Parkinson’s Disease and boxes twice a week at Rock Steady Boxing in Charlottesville. It’s incredible for his balance and strength, but honestly, just as powerful for his confidence and mental health. That class is non-negotiable for us. It helps him stay steady in every sense of the word.
For my loved one with Alzheimer’s disease, we don’t say yes to every specialized appointment. Too many can be exhausting or disorienting. But we do say yes if it supports mobility, strength, or joy. That’s our filter now. If something helps her body or her spirit, it stays on the calendar.
We used to avoid public events, worried they might cause agitation or confusion. But we’ve let go of that fear. Her happiness matters more. If something brings joy, even just for a moment, it’s worth the effort. It may take more preparation, more flexibility, and sometimes more patience, but those moments of happiness are everything.
Supporting independence doesn’t mean ignoring safety. It means honoring who someone is while gently adapting the world around them. That might look like a rollator, a walking partner, or being more selective with appointments. It might mean showing up at events without knowing how they’ll go and trusting that joy is still possible.
That’s the space we try to live in. It’s not perfect. But it’s real. And every time we strike that balance, even for a day, it feels like love in motion.
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