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Last spring, my group chat dinged with a message: "FYI Ben's mom ran away carrying only her cat."

This event, later dubbed The Great Escape, was the most drastic incident cataloged by our friends in the deep end of caregiving. It was both alarming and absurd — a woman with dementia, cat tucked under arm like a running back for her beloved Packers, bolting from her new assisted living facility without a wallet, phone or the ability to remember the address of where she had lived for decades. Text by text, the story filled in. She ended up in a local paint store. A conscientious cashier drove her more than 10 miles "home." A frantic search, aided by a time-delayed AirTag and first responders, found her safe within the hour.

By that evening, our group chat had shifted from panic to parody: creating AI-generated images of a cat-toting older woman amid falling buildings and explosions. This response may seem crass, undignified. But there is little dignity in being a caregiver to someone with undiagnosed and unsupported dementia, worn down by calls from your loved one who forgot they have called 14 times that day, fielding messages from well-meaning neighbors that "you really should be doing something," all while desperately trying to do the right thing for someone who is "just fine, thank you" and, also, your mother-in-law. Dignity is buried by a bone-deep exhaustion of doubt and fear and love and helplessness and frustration that leaves you snort-laughing about perilous events and bad AI art. It's a place of existence that reminds me of when, after the birth of my daughter, I stumbled bleary-eyed into the kitchen to find my own mother making breakfast. She took one look at me and said, "I wish I could have told you how hard this part is. But I don't think you can understand until you're in it."

Millions of unpaid caregivers are in it. According to a 2023 report from AARP, 67% of family caregivers struggle to balance their jobs with caregiving. One in three takes a leave of absence; more than a quarter cut hours. My friend is one of them — caring for her mother-in-law long-distance while working full time. And now, she may not even qualify for paid leave under bipartisan proposals in the Minnesota Legislature, which aim to narrow the definition of "family" in the Paid Family and Medical Leave Act.

This is not a sustainable system. The truth is, we can't wait for one to be built.

When I share the story of The Great Escape, people jump in, coaching from the sidelines. Have they considered door alarms? A nanny cam? AirTags on underthings, a more expensive facility, a different drug regime, a robot cat? What about vitamin B? There was an article about vitamin B, did you read it? The barrage of ideas always misses one key solution: us.

Yes, us — the neighbors, coworkers, friends and community members. Today, there are nearly 950,000 Minnesotans over 65 years of age, and 90% of those live in their own homes. By 2040 our older adult population will swell to 1.26 million. Being in community with aging folks and their caregivers is the future of our bus routes, our libraries, our dental offices, our churches and our grocery stores.

We need a culture shift — a recognition that dementia support isn't just medical or institutional. It's social, and it starts with awareness.

To all those still on the sidelines of dementia, consider this your invitation to join us on the field. Here's an easy step you can take right now: Become a Dementia Friend (dementiafriendsmn.org). These free, one-hour sessions teach you the basics about dementia, offer communication tips, and help you understand how to support neighbors and loved ones living with it. Over 30,000 Minnesotans have become Dementia Friends — but we need everyone.

We need you.

Because sometimes, the only thing standing between a terrifying ordeal and a story you can laugh about later is a well-informed community and a good group chat.

Maren Levad, of Minneapolis, leads information sessions as a volunteer for Dementia Friends.