The Importance of “Emotional Anchors” for People with Alzheimer’s

Rosanna Fay is a writer and retired Silicon Valley marketing executive whose work on aging and caregiving has appeared in The Atlantic, Forbes, and NPR. She lives in New Hampshire with her husband and in-laws, caring for her mother-in-law with Alzheimer’s. Away from the page, she remains a devoted, lifelong horsewoman.

In many ways, this story about Alzheimer’s begins with a horse.

I first noticed concerning changes in my mother-in-law, Bev, back in 2019. She had become quieter and more withdrawn. Many of the changes, including memory lapses, were easy to chalk up to her hearing loss and, for a while, that explanation held. Understandably, my husband didn’t want to believe it might be Alzheimer’s. I’m sure Bev didn’t either. But by the spring of 2024, the reality could no longer be explained away. Bev agreed to see a neurologist, and after a CAT scan and cognitive evaluation, the diagnosis was made: moderate-to-severe Alzheimer’s disease. That same summer, my husband and I left California and moved in with my in-laws in New Hampshire to care for her full-time. And in an unexpected change to our plan — we brought my horse with us.

Cosmo, a big-hearted gelding and my personal dream come true, had once been my competition horse. I had high hopes of earning a Dressage Federation medal with him. But his body, prone to lameness, had other plans — as did our life together. Instead of becoming a show ring champion, Cosmo became something even better than I had ever imagined: my heart horse, soulful teacher, and now, an unexpected bridge between my mother-in-law and the world.

When we first began our caregiving journey, we had no idea how profoundly important it would be to have an emotional anchor for Bev — something real and personal that she could connect with again and again. We’ve been incredibly lucky that, in Bev’s case, that anchor was horses.

As a child, Bev had longed to ride. But her mother believed horses were dangerous, and wouldn’t allow it. As an adult, Bev took a few lessons and spent some time around barns, but it didn’t quite fit with her lifestyle. Still, the longing never went away.

So, when we told her in 2024 that we were coming to care for her — and that Cosmo would be coming too — the tears came. “My mother would never let me have a horse,” she cried. I held her gently by the shoulders and told her, “Well, your daughter-in-law says you can have one.”

That moment of connection was real and lasting. It gave her something joyful. Something that landed and stuck deep. Now, Bev visits Cosmo at the barn regularly, where she loves to spoil him with treats. When she can’t see him in person, we show her photos and short videos of him. She lights up each time. It brings her comfort and sparks recognition, even on hard days.

As I look back over the past year, I’ve learned so much. And I hope what we’re learning and practicing continues to help Bev as her disease progresses. Four lessons have stood out most clearly:

1. Identify an emotional anchor
   Look for a passion or interest your loved one had earlier in life. Was it gardening? Pets? Painting? Try to bring that into their daily environment in a consistent, sensory way, through touch, visuals, music, scent, or activity.
2. Make it tangible
   Bev doesn’t just listen to stories about Cosmo. She touches his soft muzzle, sees the shine in his coat, hears him snort happily and crunch on carrots. These tangible interactions seem more powerful than abstract memories. But not everyone with Alzheimer’s can physically engage, and in those cases, photos and videos still have an extremely powerful emotional effect.
3. Repeat the joy
   Alzheimer’s is a disease of repetition, and that can be incredibly heartbreaking. But repetition also offers an opportunity: you can repeat joy. Even if we watch the same video of Cosmo together daily, Bev responds as though it’s the first viewing. There is real beauty in that.
4. Lean into positives
   Lately, our favorite phrase is “the details don’t matter.” No matter where I’m headed, Bev always assumes I’m going to the barn to see Cosmo. And that’s okay. I promise I’ll give him a kiss from her, even if I’m actually running to the grocery store. Because in that moment, it’s not about whether she understands the specifics. What matters is that her heart feels connected to me, to Cosmo, and to the life we all share.

Caregiving is full of hard decisions. But it’s also full of opportunities to honor the person you love: who they were, and who they still are, even as the disease progresses. I’m grateful for Cosmo’s role in Bev’s journey. He may never set hoof in a competition ring again, but in this unexpected season of life, he’s doing something far more meaningful: He is helping a woman with Alzheimer’s believe that she finally got the horse she always wanted.