This has allowed George to build a special and significant relationships with people living and working in the homes over several years and to take a flexible, creative and personal approach to bringing music into the home. His role goes far beyond that of an ‘entertainer’. It is much less about performing at the front of a room and far more about being a friend with a guitar, spending meaningful time together.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if more care providers considered making this vital investment in music in care homes and hospitals?

This is George’s story of how it came about and what the work means to him.

‘Ah, my nan’s care home had live music — she loved it!’
‘Music always brought Dad out of himself.’
‘That must be a really rewarding job.’

These are the kinds of responses I repeatedly get when I tell people I play live music in care homes. But whilst I’ve managed to carve out something vaguely akin to a career in the performing arts, I haven’t always felt quite the same sense of pride and purpose when explaining what it is I do for a living.

Over three decades I have been a jobbing actor, a vocalist, a music creator, a theatre maker. Time and again I’ve seen people’s eyes light up when they ask what it is I do.

‘Ooh, an actor — have I seen you in anything?’
‘A musician — are you famous?’

Sometimes a conversation is sparked. Most of the time, those same eyes quickly dim and wander as I attempt to explain the ad hoc affair that it can be making a living as a performer. And quite rightly so. It is, for the most part, not glamorous and, furthermore, a notoriously precarious occupation. That precarity is intensified by it being a vocation — a way of being where identity and income are all tied up together.

Cut to Brighton in the early 2000s. The London-on-sea party destination was not just my home but also a hotbed of opportunity for a nascent professional musician. I dived straight in. It wasn’t long before I was doing several gigs a week — sometimes two a night. But a few years down the line, I discovered, to my dismay, that fronting bands and singing at corporate events and private functions — whilst providing me with an income — was making me quite unhappy.

I stepped away from it all, certain that fulfilment was to be found in more ‘discerning’ areas of the industry. It would be another decade or two before I discovered it was the context, not the content, that was causing my existential crisis.

Fast forward to early summer 2022. I found myself on another day of job hunting, having a stilted conversation with a busy administrator at a one of the homes belonging to the Southern Healthcare group.

‘Musician in Residence job? Sorry, don’t know anything about it.’
‘It’s been posted today on Indeed,’ I proffered eagerly.

In my haste to be considered for the role, I was evidently bypassing the correct application process. I soon came to learn that my enthusiasm was almost on a par with the job post’s author. The lack of knowledge of such a vacancy was because such a position did not currently exist at the time — except in the vision of the managing director with a passion for live music.

I got the job. Or at least I thought I had.

I met with Geoffrey Cox, MD of Southern Healthcare. He explained how he wanted to expand the provision of live music across the homes. It was the tail end of the pandemic. Whilst there had been some return to normality, there was still significant disparity in the delivery of activities. What he was envisioning sounded like an innovative approach. I was chuffed to bits.

A few days later — some hesitation. There’d been pushback from concerned staff. A musician on the payroll? In-house, across all four homes?  How would that be co-ordinated?

“Surely there are more essential assets to be procured before some minstrel starts wandering willy-nilly around the place, Mr Cox? Someone to drive the minibus, for a start?”

Valid points indeed, but not in tune with this vision.

Luckily for me, such was the maverick spirit and boundless enthusiasm of Mr Cox that a trial period was agreed upon. This luck continued as probationary weeks turned into months, and months rolled into years. Rock and roll!

I must say I did go into it armed and prepared. I had an extensive, varied repertoire from all those years on the circuit. I had a clear vision of how I wanted to present myself. All that busking and immersive theatre had shown me I could engage without the need to plug anything in. And when you are free of such restrictions, you also have an additional instrument at your disposal — your own body.

Measuring success moment by moment

But stepping back, what is the hard evidence on the effectiveness of live music for wellbeing? What measurements can be used to determine effectiveness? Where is the solid data that will reassure stakeholders — namely residents and their families — that they are receiving value for money when that singer and his dog come tumbling yet again into the lounge?

I know it won’t win over all economists, but here are some examples of what I have witnessed time and again when we rock up:

June’s* soulful singing and sharp-as-a-tack comebacks.
Alice’s* elegant footwork and raised eyebrows.
Julia’s* all-in dancing and all-out teasing.
Harriet’s* measured tapping and withering looks.
Fred’s* rattling — both his tambourine playing and his leg-pulling of yours truly.

Over four years and, in both character and geography, across four distinctly different homes, I have experienced on a regular basis the magic that happens when you can provide a song, a beat and a bit of banter.

Making things personal

Making weekly visits means I get to personalise sessions and really know people. I learn that Sally* will suddenly become animated at the opening line of Don’t Fence Me In. I remember that Somewhere Over the Rainbow will make Belinda* tearful (in a nice way); that Dedicated Follower of Fashion will make Fred’s eyes sparkle, eliciting memories of sauntering through Soho in the 60s.

Quite often, I will improvise, including suggestions and contributions from people in the moment, which brings that extra sense of feeling heard and included. It means I can adapt my set, my delivery and even my whereabouts depending on who is present — in the lounge, the garden or their own room. And of course, that’s not just residents but, importantly, team members and visitors alike.

This all leads me back to my ‘gigging days’. It was the context. Being up on stage, surrounded by speakers, stands and cables, made me feel detached — from audiences, even from my fellow musicians. What I craved was a return to the environment where I first started singing and playing: a living room populated by friends and family. A space where removing the pressure to perform allows the music to be heard, where thoughts can be aired and ideas bounced around.  It’s truly personal.

An unexpected double act

Ah, talking of bouncing — there is a being I’ve only briefly mentioned thus far. My dotty collie-springer cross, Dotty, is my co-performer. What started as a one-off necessity became an absolute fixture. And she, of course, brings her own brand of connection.

Unsurprisingly, she is ball-mad. And as far as Dotty is concerned, where there are people, there are ball-throwers. Drop into the mix a job lot of repurposed litter-picker grabbers and it’s not just songs and chats being thrown about the place.

So yes, these days I feel pride and purpose when I tell strangers what it is I do. And I am forever honoured and humbled by the people and communities in whose homes I get to hang out — throwing out energy and seeing what comes back. Give me that any day over some polite yet disengaged round of applause.

So, with that in mind, it is only right that I leave the last word to Nick* — a true hero and a true heckler.

I met Nick at in one of the homes early on in my employment. He was someone who was very much not going to let himself be defined by a condition — a defier of self-pity. He was also an expert in the well-executed insult. He made me laugh.

When I tentatively invited requests, Nick would shout song titles suggesting I should pack up my troubles and go forth and multiply. If I attempted a bit of nice-guy chat, he’d tell me to “shaddap your face” and get on with it.

“Go home!” he’d say with a beaming smile.

It was then that I realised that, in this job, I have done just that.

George Williams

*names have been changed

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What I encountered was both what I thought I knew and everything I didn’t. It was both heartwarming and unsettling all at once. Full of moments that softened me, alongside moments that made me pause not because they were dramatic but because they either reinforced or challenged my notions of what long term care offers. Speaking of notions…it led me to consider that of intention. So much of our lives are built on it.  Early on, we are intentional about the paths we take.

The right schools.
The right careers.
The right relationships.
The right neighbourhoods.

We plan. We optimize. We compare. We measure progress. We make careful, deliberate choices about how life should unfold. Once we’ve done that work for ourselves, we then turn our attention to our children, guiding, nudging, worrying, and hoping our intentions will carry them forward into lives that are safe, meaningful, and full. How often do we apply that same level of intention to the final chapters of our lives and those of our parents? Not just where we will live but how we will be lived with. Not only safety and medical care but the dignity, identity, and belonging that was so important in the earlier years of our lives. Not merely how long we live but how much of ourselves is still allowed to exist within that living.

Walking into a long-term care home creates a quiet reckoning. It interrupts the idea that life is always about momentum and achievement. Instead, it poses a different question and it is one that has nothing to do with progress and everything to do with humanity: What does intention look like when the goal is no longer growth, but presence?

This is where my understanding deepened and this is also where the Butterfly Methodology matters so profoundly. The Butterfly Approach is, at its core, an intentional philosophy of care. It challenges the assumption that care must be clinical, task-driven, and impersonal. It asks us to shift our focus from routines and structures to relationships, from systems to people and  from control to connection. It is intentional about slowing down and noticing who we are with and how we are with them and intentionally adapting the environment to people, rather than forcing people to adapt to environments. It understands that even when memory fades, personhood does not and that we have to be intentional in our behaviour and our communication because emotion often outlives cognition.  Joy, fear, comfort, and connection are ever present even if words have escaped our memories. 

What struck me most was this: intention doesn’t just shape the experience of residents. It shapes the culture of care itself and is the sustainability we want. Intentionality is not what we say we value.  It is what our environments, routines, and behaviours show us to be true. Many long-term care homes are built with good intentions, but intentions, without alignment, can dissolve into process. What is meant to be compassionate can become transactional and what is designed for care can slip into control.

When intention is lived, truly lived….when it shows up in the day to day hum of the home, we do more than improve outcomes. We make a statement about who matters and who we are choosing to be. Surely the twilight of our lives deserves the same intentionality as the beginning. I definitely thought I knew what to expect from a long-term care home. What I discovered instead was a deeper question: If intention shapes how we live, what does our care at the end of life reveal about how deeply we value life itself, overall?

The post Working in Long Term Care – A lesson in intention appeared first on Meaningful Care Matters.

Sometimes, infection prevention can feel at odds with person-centred care. PPE, isolation protocols, and cleaning routines can seem like barriers to connection. But our experience has shown that when done thoughtfully, IPAC actually enhances the Butterfly Approach. It allows residents to live safely, participate fully, and experience meaningful moments without unnecessary risk.

Good leadership is essential in making this balance work. It starts with vision and courage—helping the team see that infection prevention isn’t just about rules, it’s about protecting what matters most: our residents’ health, dignity, and quality of life. Even in challenging moments, a leader’s confidence and clarity help staff feel supported and purposeful.

Empathy and presence are equally important. Wearing PPE or following safety protocols can feel impersonal, but leaders who model compassion—who listen, encourage, and find creative ways to connect safely—show staff and residents that care and safety can coexist.

Leadership in this context also requires collaboration and trust. IPAC and emotional care cannot succeed in isolation. Every member of the team—nurses, PSWs, recreation, dietary, housekeeping—plays a vital role. By involving staff in problem-solving, celebrating successes, and addressing concerns openly, we build a culture of shared responsibility and pride.

Finally, consistency and accountability ensure that our vision becomes a reality. Infection prevention practices are integrated seamlessly into daily routines, not as obstacles, but as tools that support meaningful care. Staff see these measures as part of creating a safe, thriving environment where residents can fully engage in life’s moments.

Since adopting the Butterfly Approach, we’ve witnessed a remarkable shift. Residents are not just cared for—they are truly lived with. Staff feel more connected to their work, and IPAC is no longer viewed as a separate set of rules, but as an essential component of a home where safety and joy coexist.

Our success proves that transformation takes a whole team. Infection prevention is not a barrier—it is one of the foundations that allows person-centred, emotion-focused care to flourish. Together, we are creating a culture where care is not only excellent but heartfelt.

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The heart of care is human presence. The goal is not to stimulate, entertain, or “keep busy,” but to BE alongside one another, to nurture belonging, identity, and emotional safety. To BE present in the moment. At Christmas, the principle of being together and sharing the experience matters more than ever. After all, isn’t this the true message of Christmas?

Here are some key thoughts for us all to remember this Christmas:

The Season is Felt, Not Remembered. Many people living with dementia or mental health problems may find some memories to be too painful or may not recall past holiday moments clearly. Yet the feeling of Christmas – warmth, belonging and togetherness is still an important part of creating new experiences and memories for people. Let’s remember we meet emotional moments in the present, not memories from the past.

Creating Spaces of Belonging is important for supporting emotional memory to be triggered. During Christmas, small, thoughtful touches can help sustain a sense of warmth and identity:

• Keep decorations simple and familiar.
• Display soft lighting rather than bright, flashing patterns.
• Play gentle, well-known carols rather than fast, festive noise.
• Create cozy corners where someone may simply sit with a warm drink and breathe.

Belonging does not require conversation. It grows through being together. The key to supporting belonging is to embrace the idea of slowing down together. In many health and social care settings, Christmas can accidentally shift toward performance, i.e. large group activities, themed events or parties, and busy calendars. But activity is not always connection. Emotion-focused care gives permission to slow down. To choose quality over quantity.

Christmas is a time to honour identity and story. Every person has a history of how they “used to do Christmas”. Some traditions bring a sense of joy. Some bring grief. Others, peace and comfort. We honour identity by following the emotional cues we see in the people around us, not by insisting on traditions. Connection is not created by doing what we have always done. It is created by doing what feels meaningful now.

As caregivers, whether family, support workers, nurses, companions, or friends, we sometimes think we must make the season joyful. But joy is not something we create. Joy is experienced when people feel safe, seen, respected and emotionally connected.

The most meaningful gift any of us can offer this Christmas is ourselves… our warmth, our attention, our presence.

Christmas does not need to be big to be meaningful. It does not need to be loud to be joyful. It does not need to be remembered to be felt. When we take an emotions first approach, we see that the heart remembers what the mind forgets. So, this Christmas among all the traditions, the busyness, the abundance of food and the presents, let’s celebrate presence over perfection. Let’s prioritise comfort and belonging and make moments that matter.

Happy Christmas.

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For a moment let’s focus on people.  Like trees, our lives are shaped by the people who surround us. Our relationships and connections give us a sense of purpose and meaning. In care settings we are particularly vulnerable, and this grounding sense of relationships can become lost.  It is important to ensure every interaction we have creates connection.

So, let’s tell a story…

There are three types of people in life: the leaf people, the branch people, and the root people.

Leaf people come into our lives for a reason or a season. They bring colour, comfort, and teach us lessons for a time, but when life’s winds begin to blow, they can drift away. We can still appreciate them, their value, their warmth and their gentle presence, but they are not necessarily permanent features in our lives.  The leaf people remind us to value each connection, however brief, and to find meaning in moments that may be fleeting.

Branch people are stronger and have a stabilising influence. They help us grow, providing structure and support when we need it most. They are important and a staying presence in life. These are the people who walk alongside us for a while but may bend or even break overtime. Their presence teaches us resilience and acceptance. Branch people might be colleagues, mentors, or friends who support us through certain chapters of our lives, shaping who we are along the way.

Root people are truly special. They are the ones who stay no matter the season. They ground us. They don’t seek attention, praise, or reward, they simply hold us steady, nurturing us. When times are hard, they draw close rather than turn away. Root people are those who see beyond the circumstance, the diagnosis, or the role. They connect through love, empathy, and shared humanity. Their strength doesn’t come from what they do, but from who they are.

What kind of person are you?

We all agree that as people who work in health and social care settings our interactions are for a reason and a season, they also provide structure and stability in times of uncertainty.  This is great as a foundation, but emotion focused care is grounded in kindness, compassion, and genuine connection. It’s not about ticking boxes or completing tasks. It’s about presence, creating a sense of belonging where people feel safe, valued, and seen for who they truly are.

The people who make the greatest difference are not the ones with the most recognition or status, but the ones who take the time to listen, to encourage, and to love without condition. These are the roots we need to nourish, nurture, value and support people to truly be ‘free to be me’.  Because in the end, it isn’t what we ‘do’ that defines us. It’s the depth of our connections. When we choose to be someone’s roots — we help the whole forest grow stronger.

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This is a story of the power of bringing in volunteers from specific cultural and faith backgrounds to ensure that this aspect of people’s unique identity is recognised and celebrated.

It’s 10:15am in the Goreway Resident Home Area, at Peel Manor in the Region of Peel, Ontario, Canada. 

Zelia, a volunteer arrives and tells me she is leading a Portuguese Rosary Group which she does weekly.   She tells me that her mother used to live in the home seven years previously, she lives across the street, and she likes to help now; “They often go back to the mother tongue, and it must be frustrating when no one understands them. Even if one person responds, it’s worth coming!”

Eight Portuguese people living in the home are helped to go into the light Atrium space of the home, where Zelia has set up a table with a red cloth, a cross and a picture of ‘Senhor Santo Cristo Dos Milagres’ which sets the scene.

The individuals in the group look much like many people living in care homes.  They are sitting in wheelchairs, some are living with dementia and initially all seem quite quiet, sleepy and reserved. My colleague and I are invited to observe and wonder how this one volunteer will be able to reach and support all these people with a range of different needs.

Within moments, everyone is holding their Rosary beads and Zelia starts to recite the prayers in Portuguese.

It is as if a light goes on in the room.  The familiarity of the words, shared during so many Sundays over so many years in their lives and the rhythm of the woman’s voice is like magic – waking everyone up in the room, and somehow restoring their status as individuals.  Although they are in wheelchairs, it feels as if they are standing tall in the presence of their God.  Gradually each person joins in with the prayers.  There are moments when Zelia forget some of the words – she tells me that she is a bit rusty with knowing all the prayers. But this is like a gift to her group members as some of the older adults just step in and take a lead – they know the words well! They are proud to lead again! Religious songs follow and there are people with beautiful voices, whose sounds lift to the heights of the sky in the Atrium like angels.  

I am not Portuguese.  I am not a Catholic. I do not understand any of the words. However, I feel completely connected with this spiritual experience and it moves me deeply.

Once the Rosary is completed, Zelia invites some general chat in the group.  The atmosphere is both animated and relaxed.  She tells me that this part of the group is appreciated just as much as the formal side of the worship, much as many people enjoy the social element of the church. I do not know the content of the conversations, but it feels like the weather, politics and the general state of the world might be involved!  She skilfully involves each person in the group. I no longer see the wheelchairs, the grey hair, the LTC ‘resident’.  They are a group of friends, who enjoy sharing their language and their faith – and perhaps, even more importantly, feeling seen and heard again.

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I have noticed in the many care homes I visit, many older adults sit in silence in living rooms or at dining room tables.  Some do seem to have lost the confidence to initiate a conversation, or perhaps, like my mum, don’t feel that they have much to talk about, especially when life in a care home can feel quite dull.   

However, recently at West View care home in Devon, I was struck by how my presence at a table created an animated conversation at breakfast time.  I had watched the same group saying very little to each other at a meal the day before.  So, what did I do to change things up?  I used pictures and in particular old calendars to generate interest. One of these calendars was a collection of vintage pictures of street and country scenes from the 1950s and 1960s. One picture had some old cars and aeroplanes, and the topic of ‘planes resulted in Mike, who had been sitting quietly beside me, talking about his long career as a pilot flying all over the world. I shared that my own grandfather had also been a pilot and that my grandmother flew Gipsy Moth aeroplanes in the 1930s.  We looked at pictures of old aeroplanes from the internet on my phone, and Mike recognised and proudly named many of them.  Monica remembered living in Hertfordshire not far from an aerodrome and described, as a child, going to the end of her garden with her brothers to watch the aeroplanes taking off in the distance. We found another connection here as I had gone to University in Hatfield, a town Monica remembered well.  The next conversation was prompted by a picture of a woman on a farm and Monica had been in the Land Army and had many happy stories from that period of her life. We then all talked about our favourite animals, and the names of our first pets.  By the end of the meal, all four people sitting with me had come to life in an animated way, whether they were talking or listening.  Monica warmly thanked me, saying “It has made such a difference to have such a great conversation to start our day.”

What I did perhaps feels relatively simple, but it is surprising how many care team members I work alongside seem to lack the skill to initiate these conversations – to ask the right questions to spark memories and to create connections between people.  Can this be taught?   I wonder if these team members also lack the self-confidence that they have something interesting to say or contribute? Fortunately, there are usually some team members with lively personalities who are naturally very good at the ‘chat’ side of their role, which can make a huge difference to the atmosphere.   

We have created a set of ‘Chat cards’ at Meaningful Care Matters to generate good conversational topics. (*1) Some examples include “Which of your parents had the most influence on you?”, “Would you rather go shopping or go for a walk in the countryside?” “What is your favourite season of the year?”  We suggest that team members leave these cards out on tables and invite responses.  The art of doing this is for it not to seem like a task or an interrogation, but ideally to warm up the topic by sharing your own experience first e.g. “Springtime always makes me feel a sense of hope with the lighter days and seeing the colourful spring flowers coming out.  I wonder which of the seasons do you like best?” Sharing self in everyday conversation is one of the core skills and qualities we look for in implementing the Butterfly Approach.    Contrary to older practices of not divulging anything personal about yourself when you are at work, we see the ability to create connections with people through your memories and experiences as essential to reducing the sense of ‘them and us’ between those living and working in care homes.  We invite team members to bring themselves to work in a variety of ways. This might, for example, be a photograph of a grandchild or their dog or perhaps bringing in a new pair of shoes they have recently bought to wear at an upcoming family wedding.    

We are considering adding more components to our Butterfly training which help people practice and improve their conversational skills, using pictures and props, so they feel more confident to initiate a chat which goes deeper than just talking about the weather or what’s on the menu. As Monica said to me, you can make a person’s day by taking them back to a happy memory or reminding someone like my mum that they DO have something to say which is worth listening to.

References *1 – Meaningful Care Matters Chat Cards available to purchase https://staging.meaningfulcarematters.com/product-category/activity-sensory-resources/

Photo Credit: People living and working at West View care home, Bere Alston, enjoying a chat.

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Why is that? Football is regular; it happens every week, we can follow it alone or as part of a crowd, it is simply fun, it’s cheap – you can watch it on the TV.

In England we call football our national sport.  Last year in England, ever hopeful, we thought it might just be coming home!  We chanted, held banners, wore hats, sang, hugged and finally cried – figuratively speaking. The English team did us proud. But it wasn’t to be. England were good, Spain was better. Such is the nature of competitions – we can only have one winner.

Football fans are familiar with the emotions that go with winning or losing a game – it’s all part of the chase for top place, or dread of relegation, in whichever league your team is in.

My football experiences began when I was very young. My Dad was a Wolves and Manchester United supporter. My overarching football memory is when, at 5pm every Saturday, we children had to be supremely quiet while the football pools were read out. Not a word was spoken without a very stern ‘be quiet!’ if you made any sound at all. Within my family now ‘Match of the Day’ is rarely ever missed plus of course attendance at home games as often as possible.

The love of football remained with my Dad throughout his life.  Even during his final hours when, close to death, slipping in and out of consciousness he had a TV screen within view of his bed. As I sat with my brother, for several hours, waiting for those precious moments when Dad might register our presence he opened his eyes, looked at the screen where a game was showing and made one comment, “Oh he’s bringing him out is he?” His eyes closed again as he drifted back off to his slowing life.

As we age our disabilities restrict our access to the things that are important to us. We rely on the knowledge and insight of our care people to enable our living experiences.  Enabling football is an easy activity that so many people can enjoy. All it needs is a little thoughtfulness from the care team.

Unlocking the store of football memories will reward you with tales of games, goals, players, colours, friends, travel to and from games, celebrations, team songs and chants. In other parts of the world, of course, there will be different sports which evoke the same passion – Ice Hockey, Rugby etc.

Keeping football alive for football fans is so important and might include the following:

• Taking the time to find out when a game is on television and turning it on at the right time
• Accessing information about whichever team your person supports. There is a wealth of merchandise and memorabilia to make available.
• Trips to local games
• Visits from players to the care homes

Can you bring it home for your football fans?

The post Who are ya? appeared first on Meaningful Care Matters.

When something bad happens to someone I know—whether a friend or a family member—I often have the thought, “That’s awful,” and then move on. It might linger for a few days, and I’ll feel empathetic for a moment, but in reality, my life continues as normal.

But what happens when it happens to me? When my life is suddenly thrown into chaos? When my emotions are all over the place, and I find that most people around me just don’t understand? That’s when I realise how different things are when you’re in the midst of the experience, rather than just observing it.

The Long Road to Parenthood

Twenty years ago, my wife and I began trying to start a family. Little did we know, this journey would stretch on for seven years, marked by years of fertility treatments and countless insensitive comments from well-meaning people. If you’ve struggled with infertility, you know the heartache. But if you haven’t, it’s hard to truly understand what it feels like to watch more than 40 babies be born to friends and family while you’re still hoping for just one of your own. Trust me, it’s not something you can truly grasp until it happens to you.

Bankruptcy: A Humbling Reality

Fifteen years ago, I thought of bankruptcy as something reserved for people who were dishonest or irresponsible with money—practically criminals. But following the 2008 financial crisis, we found ourselves over-leveraged in a property development and were forced to file for bankruptcy. Well-meaning people would say things like, “It must be great to be debt-free now,” but the truth was, I felt humiliated. It took years to work through the self-inflicted labels of failure and disappointment. If you’ve experienced crushing failure, you might have a sense of this, but if you haven’t, it’s hard to imagine just how deeply it can affect you.

Kidney Failure: A Personal Struggle

This year, I faced a health crisis that I never anticipated. Just three months after moving from the UK to Australia, I experienced sudden kidney failure. I have a congenital kidney disease, and I’ve watched several family members go on to dialysis or undergo transplants. So, you might think I was prepared for what lay ahead. But here’s the thing—it’s completely different when it happens to you. The endless hospital visits, daily pain, operations, and a life-altering treatment regimen have brought my life to a grinding halt.

Empathy in Practice

Through all of these trials, one thought keeps coming to mind: the reality of experiencing something myself is nothing like watching someone else go through it. As many of us work with individuals living with dementia, we may have witnessed the toll it takes people and their families. But the truth is, none of us can fully grasp what it feels like to live with dementia unless we experience it firsthand.

I remember when we learned that our IVF treatments had been successful. The clinicians were business-like and detached—they see this outcome every day. Likewise, during the bankruptcy process, I realised the judge who declared our bankruptcy wasn’t personally affected by our struggles. It was just another case for him. Similarly, in the hospital over the past few months, I’ve encountered many doctors and specialists, and while their care has been excellent, I know they see patients like me every day.

This repetition, this “clinical detachment,” is common in professions where people face difficult circumstances regularly. But as those of us who care for others, we must be careful not to become numb to the pain and challenges that our patients, residents, or their loved ones are facing.

We have a responsibility to remain empathetic—to truly put ourselves in the shoes of the people we care for, and to never forget the profound impact their struggles have on their lives. Our empathy should be a constant reminder that we can’t truly understand someone else’s pain until we walk a mile in their shoes.

The post We think we know, but we don’t appeared first on Meaningful Care Matters.

Try to imagine a house that’s not a home. 
Try to imagine a Christmas all alone.
The only things I see
Are emptiness and loneliness
And an unlit Christmas tree.

Songwriters Jeremy Lanning, Michael Chapman, Nicky Chinn. Song by Mud

It is no surprise that for those who experience loneliness in their lives, Christmas can be a particularly difficult time of year.  Everything on the television, in the shops and in the general collective conscience seems to be telling you that this is a time of great happiness, families coming together, huge excesses of food and gifts being given and received.  But what if you have no plans for December 25^th, and the Turkey dinner for one is not looking very appealing?

You can of course experience a sense of loneliness at any age, but many older adults, who have lost their spouses, or whose families have moved away, are perhaps more likely to find themselves spending longer periods of time on their own.

My mother lost her beloved husband living with dementia in a care home over 4 years ago.  She never complains, but she does sometimes admit that when I am leaving after a visit, the house suddenly feels very empty and quiet.  She is grateful for the companionship of the radio and the television, but says that in the winter particularly, the day feels very long when there is nothing in the diary.

Loneliness is not just experienced when you are on your own.  Being alone and being lonely are two very different things, as many people can enjoy great contentment being on their own. Perhaps one of the worst feelings is when you are surrounded by other people, but you have a profound sense of not being particularly connected to them.  You go through the motions of putting on the Christmas hat or pulling a cracker, but your heart really isn’t in it, because it isn’t where you want to be.  John, a man living in a care home told me that Christmas reminds him of all he has lost.  He sometimes says he is overwhelmed by memories of when his children were little and the excitement of opening their stockings together.  He also remembers his own family Christmases when he was small and can picture his mother standing in the kitchen stirring the Christmas pudding.  John says that whilst he wants these happy memories to be a comfort to him, he sometimes pushes them aside, as they leave him feeling the painful contrast of his current Christmases with what he describes as a “group of kind strangers.”  Like my mother, he doesn’t grumble, but there is a sense of sad resignation that this is the reality for so many people as they age.

So, what can be done to make this better?  We cannot bring back people’s younger selves, their lost parents and spouses, and we can’t pretend that Christmases will ever be quite the same.  However, for care teams working in care homes, our role as ‘kind strangers’ is still very important.  We can find ways to lessen the sense of loneliness for individuals we support through moments of affection and laughter.   We can find out what a person’s favourite food, song or film was and surprise them with a treat.  We could help people contact a family member or old friend through the power of technology.  For some individuals, helping them do something for someone else who isn’t having an easy time can help, such as donation to a children’s charity or adopting an animal through the many rescue and wildlife charity schemes.  

But the most important gift we give people at Christmas is our time.  When we stop to sit and chat, or pick up a phone to talk to a relative living alone at home or in a care home,  this is the ‘Gold, Frankincense and Myrr’ of the festive season.  For that small moment in time, at least, we are saying to that person, “I’m here for you. You are not alone.”

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