Caring Better: Moving Beyond Toxic Behaviors in Memory Care
Caring Better: Moving Beyond Toxic Behaviors in Memory Care- “If you can’t/won’t get on my page, get out of my fucking way.”
In caregiving, there are two kinds of texts: the ones you send, and the ones you wish you could throw away and pretend never happened.
Maybe you’ve sent a message like, “You should be ashamed of yourself. How dare you…” during an argument with someone who has Alzheimer’s. They might not remember the fight, but they will carry the feeling of being in trouble for hours or even days.
Or maybe you’re like me. You send a calm, neutral message about what the doctors recommend and what good care looks like. It gets reviewed by legal, medical, and professional experts. The tone is even, the instructions are clear. There’s one direct line about scheduled visits, because that’s what your loved one needs and wants, even if they didn’t want to say it themselves.
But somehow, it gets twisted into: “You’re banned forever, and I enjoy using my power to hurt you.”
The original message was the message.
I forgot the three main rules to follow after a conflict: don’t explain, don’t defend, and don’t ignore.
A few days later, this was the final message. This is an example of what not to do.
Schedule it. Plan an outing. Return.
“Give the pickup time, the approximate return time, and where the hell you’re going so the prep can actually be accurate, and someone is here when you bring them back. That way, I might actually be able to pick up meds or run to the store for the things we need during the hour or less you want to spend with your loved one. Don't hang out playing on your phone and pretending it's meaningful to make yourself feel better.
God forbid I be able to leave alone for one hour a month for such ‘luxuries.’”
Your phone lights up with:
“You are unhinged.”
“You’re dead to me.”
Honestly, if caregivers were really as powerful as those texts suggest, long-term care would have plenty of funding, and everyone would get a nap.
All of this takes place quietly, through a screen.
In the middle of a fight, you might type, “You should be ashamed of yourself. How dare you… you need to…” to a person living with Alzheimer’s—someone who can’t remember what the fight was about, much less why they’re supposed to be ashamed.
Here’s the truth: you are not defined by the worst thing you’ve said in anger or by the text you wish you could take back. Your real story is told by your long-term intentions—calm, safety, and dignity. If you still feel like the villain, you’re not alone. #iykyk
When a Neutral Text Turns You into the Villain
That text explained our Alzheimer’s journey—what it meant, what the doctors said, and what our loved one wanted. It was a moment of clarity, showing that this could no longer be about everyone else’s feelings. Caregivers had changed their lives, careers, locations, and taken on financial and emotional burdens. From that point, it wasn’t about anyone else. It was about the loved one. That’s it.
One very practical sentence, in essence:
“Don’t linger. Come on a schedule, create an outing—even if it’s just a Starbucks run—then head out.”
The result? I became the designated villain. Now I’m officially called “unhinged.”
Do I know what it’s like to be called unhinged? Absolutely. I can stand up for myself, and I know how to put people in their place when needed.
But in this situation, everyone chose the story that was easiest to accept. People outside couldn’t see what we experienced or give us the help we needed. So the story became: You asked for this. You got what you wanted. Now you deserve what happens.
The greatest hits:
“You are unhinged.”
“What happened to my sweet daughter? Your family despises you, and you have no friends.”
“You’re dead to me.”
Here’s a small question: if I’m “dead,” who is reading these texts and emails? Who is caring alone, without help or breaks, and not complaining about the life they had before full-time caregiving took over?
You Can’t Self‑Care Your Way Out of Broken Systems
No one can self‑care their way out of chronic understaffing, under‑funding, impossible expectations, or family chaos.
Except for my small team of professionals and supporters—and myself. So maybe saying “no one” is a stretch. If I can keep going, you can too. But let’s be honest: bubble baths don’t fix bigger problems.
When the system is designed to keep outsiders comfortable, but not the caregiver or the person receiving care, and focuses too much on “behavior management,” it almost guarantees that even the kindest people will have moments that seem toxic.
If you keep telling yourself to “be stronger” or “be better,” try to let go of that idea. This isn’t a personal failing. It’s an impossible burden.
This post is not here to:
Shame you
Belittle me
Replay your worst moments
Pretend that “good” caregivers never get it wrong
It’s here to name what causes harm so we can care better—for the person living with memory loss, and for the people who keep showing up.
I’m not perfect. I’m a real person who has used harsh words when pushed too far. My goal isn’t to make myself look like a perfect caregiver online. I want to help you avoid the mistakes we made, for the good of your loved one—not just to keep others comfortable.
Let’s be honest: the main problems didn’t start with dementia. The past keeps repeating itself in the minds of today’s memory care patients, who are often bright and fiercely independent.
You’re Not the Only One Who’s Snapped
Whether you’re a family member who never imagined you’d be managing incontinence, wandering, and late‑night phone calls, or a professional caregiver juggling too many residents with too little time, you deserve a place where your guilt can breathe.
You are not the only one who has:
Lost your temper
Felt resentment
Gone on autopilot
Sent the text you now want to deep‑six
“Moving beyond toxic behaviors” doesn’t mean becoming a perfect caregiver. It means:
Getting curious about what drives your reactions
Learning small, kinder alternatives that protect everyone’s dignity
Repairing when you’ve caused hurt—without drowning in shame
Together, we’ll look at the patterns in memory care that leave both caregivers and residents feeling hurt, and explore practical ways to change them. I hope that as you read, you feel less alone, more understood, and a little more prepared to care in a way that’s safer, kinder, and truly sustainable—for your loved one and for yourself.
What I Mean by “Toxic Behaviors” in Memory Care
The term “toxic behaviors” sounds harsh, especially when you already feel guilty. I’m not calling you toxic. I’m talking about patterns and reactions that, over time, really do harm—to the person with memory loss and to those caring for them.
Most of these behaviors come from exhaustion, fear, pressure, and lack of support—not from cruelty. Naming them gives us something we can start to change.
Harsh Tone and Scary Body Language
Raising your voice. Looming over someone. Grabbing an arm a little too firmly. Using your “teacher voice” to force compliance.
In the moment, it can feel like the only way to:
Stop a risky behavior
Keep someone from falling
Just get through the morning
For a person with memory loss, it can feel:
Terrifying
Shaming
Completely confusing
Shaming or Blaming Language
Phrases like:
“We’ve been over this a hundred times.”
“I am done.”
“You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”
“If you’d just listen, we wouldn’t have this problem.”
Shame also sneaks in sideways through texts and family threads:
“You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“How dare you…”
For someone whose brain can’t hold the argument or the context, those messages land like this:
The accusation is here.
The “why” is gone.
What’s left is a body that feels in trouble and doesn’t know why.
Ignoring Emotional Distress Because Tasks Feel Urgent
A familiar scene:
You’re at a medical appointment. The nurse asks, “Does anything hurt?” and your person cheerfully answers, “Nope.”
You know they were in pain all night, but in their world, “If I don’t feel it right now, it never happened.”
The nurse and patient laugh. The moment moves on. You’re stuck trying to translate reality so they can get the care they actually need.
When there’s no system that makes space for the caregiver’s knowledge, emotional, and physical pain goes unseen.
Talking About Them Like They’re Not There
Discussing “behaviors,” incontinence, or “problems” over someone’s head, as if they’re furniture.
It’s common in:
Busy care settings
Overwhelmed families
It leaves people feeling:
Invisible
Exposed
About six years old
‘Who’s the parent, L?” “Depends on the day, N.” For our journey, this is a code for, ‘don’t treat me as a child, ok..don’t act like a child.’ Boundaries that work for us with a giggle and a smile.
Threats and Ultimatums
Lines like:
“I’m going to block you if you don’t stop.”
“If you don’t make her, we have nothing left to discuss.”
“You should be ashamed of yourself.”
These usually come from desperation—over a relationship that’s slipping away or, if we’re honest, one that was never all that safe or mutual to begin with.
In our story, when the money ran out, most people disappeared. Only a tiny handful stayed. The rest used their outrage as a convenient exit ramp.
Why These Behaviors Are Everywhere (and Not Just Yours)
If these patterns are common in memory care, it’s not because caregivers don’t care. It’s because the conditions make it nearly impossible to stay calm, patient, and kind all the time, especially over months and years.
Most “toxic behaviors” are really stress responses. They come from bodies and minds that are overwhelmed and just trying to get through.
What’s Happening in the Caregiver’s Body
Caregiving doesn’t happen in a spa.
It happens in the middle of:
Chronic sleep deprivation
Constant vigilance (Did she wander? Did he fall? Did she eat?)
Grief over losing someone who is still here
Financial and family drama
Environments for care that are understaffed and rushed, especially home care.
Your nervous system was never designed for permanent crisis mode. When it’s stretched too far, it flips into survival:
Fight – snapping, harsh tone, arguing, grabbing too firmly, locking things down
Flight – walking out, hiding in your phone, avoiding eye contact, avoiding the whole situation
Freeze – going numb, doing the bare minimum, living on autopilot
Fawn – over‑pleasing, saying yes to everything, ignoring your limits until resentment detonates
In those moments, your brain isn’t thinking about your values. It’s just trying to make the stress stop right away.
That’s when the sharp comment, the guilt‑soaked text, or the too‑rough redirection flies out before you even realize you’ve decided to do it.
This doesn’t excuse causing harm, but it helps explain it. When we see our reactions as survival responses, we can work with our bodies instead of blaming ourselves afterward.
What’s Happening in the Brain of Someone With Dementia
The person you’re caring for is also living in chronic survival mode.
Dementia changes how the brain holds:
Time
Memory
Threat
Things that shape their world:
The present is everything. If there’s no pain right now, it can truly feel like it never existed.
Short‑term memory is fragile. They may forget the argument, the text, or why you’re upset—but their body remembers the feeling of being unsafe or scolded.
Confusion is exhausting. Waking up again and again, not knowing where you are or why someone is telling you what to do, the brain fills in the blanks: I must be in trouble. People are mad at me. I can’t trust anyone.
Old roles come back. The former teacher gets bossy. The former manager gets too controlling. The quiet one goes further inward. That’s their version of fight/flight/freeze/fawn.
So when someone raises their voice, shames, or makes jokes at their expense, the person may forget the details—but their body still feels: I’m bad. I’m in trouble. I’m not safe.
The system is not neutral, especially in home care.
Most caregiving happens inside systems that quietly make everything harder:
Staff ratios that make true gentleness feel impossible
Rigid schedules that prioritize tasks over connection
Family expectations that ignore the reality of dementia
Policies focused on liability, not dignity
In systems built around speed, documentation, and “behavior management,” it’s almost guaranteed that:
Caregivers will be pushed past their limits.
Residents will feel controlled and misunderstood.
Harm will happen, even when people are kind and skilled.
You’re not reacting this way because something is wrong with you. You’re reacting this way because you’re human in a system that isn’t built for people.
Home care is only a little different. There are almost no rules except not to cause harm, and there isn’t steady support. That doesn’t make the system neutral; it just means the pressure is quieter, more isolated, and often carried alone.
Tiny Shifts That Actually Help in the Moment
If your body is doing what it’s meant to do—protect you—it’s not realistic to expect yourself to be calm and perfect all the time.
But you can build small practices that help you:
Catch yourself
Soften your response
Repair when things go sideways
These steps aren’t about being perfect. They’re about creating a little space between what sets you off and how you respond.
1. Notice Your Early Warning Signs
Before the harsh word or sharp tone, your body usually whispers a warning.
Common signs:
Tight jaw, clenched teeth
Heat in your face or chest
Talking faster or louder
Feeling trapped or disrespected
Thoughts like, “I can’t do this,” or, “This is ridiculous.”
A tiny practice:
Silently name it: “I’m getting flooded,” or, “My fight button is lighting up.”
Put a hand on something solid (countertop, chair, your own chest) to remind your body: There is something steady here.
Taking just three seconds to notice can interrupt an automatic reaction.
2. Build a Pause You’ll Actually Use
“Just take a deep breath” can feel like an insult when you’re drowning. Try something more concrete:
Five‑second reset: Inhale for three, exhale for two while you look at something neutral (your feet, a picture, a doorknob).
Pocket phrase: Pick one sentence as a buffer:
“Give me a second.”
“Hang on, I’m here.”
“Let me think about how to help.”
Say it out loud or to yourself while your body has a moment to catch up.
3. Swap Shaming Lines for Grounding Ones
When we’re exhausted or scared, shame comes out on autopilot.
Instead of:
“We’ve been over this a hundred times.”
“You’re making this so hard.”
“If you’d just listen…”
Try:
“This is confusing. Let’s go one step at a time.”
“This is hard. I’m going to help you through it.”
“I know this doesn’t make sense right now. You’re not in trouble.”
For texts or emails, before you hit send, ask:
If they read this with no memory of what led up to it, how might it feel in their body?
If the answer is shamed or attacked:
Delete one blaming sentence.
Add one reassuring line: “You matter to me,” or, “We’ll figure this out.”
4. Stop Arguing With Their Timeline
When someone with memory loss insists, “If I don’t feel it right now, it never happened,” it can feel like your reality doesn’t count.
You don’t have to drag them into your version of the past. You can say:
“I’m glad it’s not hurting right now.”
“Last night it hurt a lot, and I want the nurse to know so we can keep you comfortable.”
If the nurse laughs it off, try:
“She doesn’t always remember the nighttime pain, but I saw her awake and uncomfortable for hours. Can we talk about options for that?”
You’re not fighting over history. You’re protecting comfort now and later.
5. Let Your Body Say, “You’re Safe”
People with dementia often read your body faster than your words.
When things escalate, try:
Lowering your voice instead of raising it
Unclenching your jaw, softening your face
Sitting or kneeling so you’re at eye level instead of towering
Angling your body slightly sideways instead of squared‑off
You don’t need the perfect words. Your body language can quietly show: You are safe. I am not here to hurt you.
6. Repair When You Mess Up
You will still:
Snap
Say things you regret
Send texts you wish you could throw into the sun
Repairing doesn’t erase what happened, but it can soften the impact for both of you.
Simple repair lines:
“I’m sorry I raised my voice. You didn’t deserve that.”
“I was tired and scared, and I took it out on you. I’m working on doing better.”
“Those texts were harsh. I wish I’d said it differently.”
Even if they don’t remember the incident, you remember that you chose care instead of denial. That matters.
7. Step Away When You Need To
Sometimes the kindest, safest thing you can do is leave the room.
If it’s safe to do so:
“I’m going to step into the kitchen for a minute and then I’ll come back.”
Tag in another staff member or family member.
Stepping away isn’t abandoning anyone. It’s a way to prevent harm.
You Can’t Hold This Alone: Widening the Circle
Personal tools are important. But if the system keeps you in constant crisis, no breathing exercise will fix everything.
No one can self‑care their way out of:
Chronic understaffing
Impossible expectations
Family chaos
If we want fewer toxic behaviors in memory care, we have to change more than the caregiver. We have to change the conditions.
What Families Can Do (Besides Criticize the Text)
Families are grieving too. They’re scared. They’re defensive. It’s easy to dump all of that on the caregiver closest to the situation.
They can also be a lifeline.
Ways families can actually help:
Believe caregivers about the hard parts. When you hear, “Nights are rough,” or “She was in pain for hours,” don’t argue. Start with: “Thank you for telling me. That sounds really hard.”
Shift from blame to partnership. Replace, “Why didn’t you…?” with, “Given how hard this is, what would help you? What’s realistic?”
Be careful with group texts and social media. Don’t use them to shame, vent, or litigate care decisions where your loved one might see—or hear about—those words without any context.
Share the load, specifically.
Sit with your loved one one afternoon a week.
Take over insurance calls or appointments.
Handle a recurring task like ordering supplies.
Saying “Let me know if you need anything” is not a real plan.
Respect boundaries instead of punishing them. When a caregiver says, “I can’t do late‑night calls every day,” or “I need one day a week off,” treat that as responsible care, not selfishness.
What Care Teams Can Do
In professional settings, you can’t single‑handedly fix ratios or rewrite policy. But you can build a micro‑culture that is less shaming.
Helpful team practices:
Normalize nervous‑system language. Make it okay to say, “I’m flooded,” or, “I need a minute,” without eye rolls. A quick swap of assignments can prevent a meltdown.
Quick huddles before the shift. Five minutes:
“Mornings are rough for her—who has bandwidth for that today?”
“He had a painful night—let’s go slow with mobility.”
Debrief after hard incidents. Documentation is required. Reflection is optional—but powerful.
Support each other in public. Talk things through later. Public shaming makes things harder for everyone.
What Facilities and Organizations Can Do
At the leadership level, choices about staffing, training, and culture directly shape how often toxic behaviors show up.
System shifts that matter:
Realistic staffing and real breaks. Breaks are harm prevention, not a perk.
Train for nervous system literacy, not just “behavior management.” Teach:
How stress shows up in caregivers and residents
Fight/flight/freeze/fawn responses
Simple in‑the‑moment tools
Policies that support stepping away. Make it explicit that caregivers can call for backup and step out briefly—without punishment.
Non‑shaming leadership. When leaders respond with curiosity and accountability instead of humiliation, staff ask for help earlier.
Listen to caregivers. Ask:
“What part of the routine triggers the most distress?”
“What would make your job even 10% more sustainable?”
Small changes, like adjusting shower times, adding a quiet space, or making paperwork easier, can lower stress more than any inspirational poster.
Toxic behaviors are most likely when one person is carrying an inhuman amount of responsibility with very little support.
When families listen and help, when teams make it normal to ask for support, and when facilities respect human limits, caregivers don’t have to try to “be better” all alone.
They’re supported by a wider circle that understands caring better isn’t just a personal job. It’s something we build together—for the good of the person being cared for, and for those who care, too.
For the Good of the One—and the Good of You
If you’re still reading, you’re already doing something brave by facing hard truths honestly.
You’ve faced:
The moments you wish you could take back—the sharp words, the brutal text, the time you pushed through someone’s fear because you felt you had no other option.
The reality that “toxic behaviors” don’t appear out of nowhere. They grow in the soil of exhaustion, grief, broken systems, and nervous systems, trying to survive.
The small, practical tools that help you create space between what happens and how you respond.
The wider circle—families, teams, and facilities—can either make things worse or help calm things down.
None of this makes memory care easy. There will still be nights when you feel like you’re letting everyone down, including yourself. There will be days when the gap between what you want to give and what you can actually do feels huge.
Here’s what I hope you carry with you:
Your hardest moments do not define the whole story.
Your nervous system is not the enemy—it’s trying, over and over, to protect you and the person you love.
Small changes matter: a kinder phrase, a softer voice, an honest apology, or someone finally believing you when you say, “This is hard.”
You were never meant to do this by yourself. You don’t need superhuman strength. You need support from other people.
Caring better isn’t about being perfect or never having a bad day. It’s about:
Telling the truth about what harms
Giving yourself and others a more accurate story about why it happens
Practicing a few simple moves that make harm less likely and make repairs more possible
Insisting, gently but firmly, that the systems around you respect human limits
If you’re reading this with a knot in your stomach, thinking of a moment you’re not proud of, this part is for you:
You are not the worst thing you’ve ever said in anger. You are not the text you wish you could unsend. You are not beyond repair.
You are a human being in an inhuman situation, still showing up.
My hope is that as you finish reading and return to your real, messy life, you feel even a small shift—from thinking “I am toxic” to “Some of my reactions have caused harm, and I’m learning new ways.” And from “I have to fix this alone” to “We could do this differently, together.”
For the good of your loved one, and for your own good too, I hope your next interaction has a little more space—for safety, for kindness, and for the honest truth that you are still trying.
That is where better care begins.
