Olivia Robertson

I'm walking 60 Miles in June for Dementia UK

As many of you know, my mum has dementia. She’s been battling it since the end of 2023 — only a few months after my father passed away. The trauma accelerated her decline, and none of us were prepared for how quickly things would change.

I always knew what dementia was, but I never understood how devastating it could truly be. Mum lives in Germany, far from me and my sisters, which adds another layer of heartbreak to an already painful journey.

We’ve faced court cases, impossible decisions, and the guilt of honouring her wishes to move into a care home.

I’m often caught off guard by waves of grief — remembering my bright blue‑eyed mum, full of smiles, love, and an artist’s way of seeing beauty in the smallest things. Where others saw “just a stone,” she saw something magical.

She faced so many trials in life, yet she always smiled. Every friend she made became family. Her love for her grandchildren was fierce and pure.

I’ll never forget the huge smile on her face when she learned my daughter’s middle name was hers — or the way she teased me about raising a “mini me.”

The last time I saw her, the light in her eyes had faded. She didn’t know who her granddaughter was, but she still showed her love. Every visit left me crying in the hallway of the care home or later alone at night.

And through all of this, I’ve had to try to function as if life is normal — work, parenting, conversations, routines — while knowing that nothing about this is normal. There is no handbook for grieving someone who is still alive. There is no guide for pretending you’re okay when your heart is breaking in slow motion. You just carry on, because you have to, even when every part of you feels stuck between love, loss, and helplessness.

Unless you’ve watched someone you love disappear in slow motion, it’s impossible to explain the loneliness. You’re not allowed to mourn, because they’re still alive — but they’re no longer the person you knew.

My heart goes out to every family walking the quiet halls of a care home in a daze, to every person crying on the floor, to everyone watching their loved one fade day by day, wanting to grieve but feeling they can’t.

I see you. I hear you. I feel you.

And this is why I’m walking in June.

I’m walking for the support and practical help that Admiral Nurses provide — for the families who desperately need guidance, understanding, and someone who truly knows what dementia takes from a person and from those who love them.

This June, I’m walking 60 miles to help ensure no family faces dementia alone. I’m raising funds for Dementia UK, the specialist dementia nursing charity, and I would be so grateful for your support.

Every donation, big or small, makes a real difference. £33 could fund an hour with a dementia specialist Admiral Nurse, giving a family practical solutions and emotional support during some of the hardest moments of their lives.

Thank you, truly. I appreciate every single one of you.

Liv x