He Is Still Bernard

When people ask me about my grandfather, Bernard, dementia isn't the first thing that comes to mind.

I think about the man who quietly shaped so much of who I am.

Bernard spent his career installing blinds, but his profession was never what defined him. What I remember is someone who believed that hard work wasn't something you talked about—it was simply what you did. He took pride in providing for his family, lived his faith every day, and believed that if something needed to be done, you simply did it.

He wasn't the loudest person in the room, and he certainly wasn't the most talkative person in our family. But put him next to someone he'd never met, and somehow they'd be deep in conversation within minutes. That was just Bernard.

He loved sports and took pride in staying active. When he was younger, he even competed in the Maccabi Games. He was disciplined, incredibly frugal, and somehow managed to balance a healthy lifestyle with a lifelong love of ice cream. More than anything, though, he loved his family. He didn't always express that with words, but he showed it every day through his actions. Looking back, I realize those quiet examples taught me more than any speech ever could.

Some of my favorite memories with him are surprisingly ordinary. Every summer, my grandparents would take my sisters and me to Sarnia, Ontario. There wasn't anything extravagant about those trips, but that's exactly what made them special. They became our tradition.

I can still picture my grandmother, Maureen, making the same sandwiches before every drive. I remember the beach, the long car rides, and the comfort of knowing we'd all be together for a few days. One trip, my grandfather got pulled over, and for the first—and maybe only—time in my life, I heard him swear. It still makes me laugh. Funny how those little moments become the ones you treasure most.

When my grandmother passed away in 2024, our family knew Bernard's life would never be the same. She was his partner in everything. They had spent decades building a life together, and after she was gone, it felt as though a part of him disappeared with her. Not long afterward, we began noticing small changes—forgetfulness, confusion, and moments that were easy to explain away until they weren't. At first, we assumed it was grief, but eventually we realized something much bigger was happening.

The Hallway

People often ask if there was one defining moment when everything changed.

For me, there was.

It wasn't a diagnosis or a doctor's appointment. It was a Sunday dinner.

Like we had done so many times before, I picked my grandfather up from his independent living community and brought him to my dad's house. From the moment I saw him, something felt different. He seemed quieter than usual, a little shaky on his feet, and not quite himself. Throughout dinner, I couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed.

When it was time to take him home, we drove back to his community. Normally, I'd pull up to the entrance, and he'd insist on getting to his apartment by himself. His independence meant everything to him. If I offered to walk him inside, he'd usually smile, tell me he was perfectly capable, and head off on his own.

That night, I decided I was walking him in anyway.

For the first time, he didn't argue.

We slowly made our way to the elevator and up to the third floor. As we walked toward his apartment, I realized he looked completely lost. This was the same hallway he'd walked countless times before, yet that evening it felt unfamiliar to him. I helped him into his apartment, made sure he was settled, and stood there for a moment before quietly heading back toward the elevator.

I can still picture that walk back down the hallway by myself.

That was the moment everything became real.

Until then, I had been grieving the loss of my grandmother. Walking back to my car that night, I realized I was beginning to grieve my grandfather too—not because he was gone, but because I knew the man I had always known was beginning to slip away in ways none of us could stop.

Today, Bernard lives in memory care. The hardest part isn't watching him grow older—it's knowing that, in so many ways, he still feels young. He still wants his independence. He still wants to make his own decisions. He still wants the life he spent decades building. I think that's what makes dementia so heartbreaking. It changes what a person can do without changing who they are.

Every time I leave after visiting him, I carry the same emotions home. I'm grateful I still get to spend time with him, but I also leave feeling sad and, if I'm being honest, guilty. Guilty that I can't visit more often. Guilty that I can't give him back the independence he misses so much.

Dementia has changed many things about my grandfather.

But it hasn't changed who he is to me.

He's still Bernard.

Finding Vallige

I'd known Matt Tullis for years before Vallige, but it wasn't until recently that I truly understood what he was building and, more importantly, why he was building it.

Learning about his family's journey with his mom, Mary Kay, and seeing the impact Vallige had already begun to have on families living with dementia changed the way I thought about the company. It stopped feeling like another startup and started feeling like something I wished had existed for my own family.

I couldn't help but picture Bernard hearing familiar voices on difficult days, seeing old family photos that sparked recognition, or finding comfort in stories from a life he built with my grandmother and the rest of our family. Those aren't moments that cure dementia, and they aren't meant to. They're moments that remind someone they're loved, connected, and not alone.

That's why I joined Vallige.

Not because I wanted to work in AI, but because I believe technology, when it's built with empathy and purpose, can help people feel more connected during one of life's most difficult journeys.

For Bernard

People sometimes ask why this work means so much to me.

The answer has never really been about technology.

It's about family.

If my grandfather could read this today, I wouldn't tell him about Vallige first. I'd thank him.

I'd thank him for teaching me that family comes first. For showing me what hard work looks like. For proving that love isn't always something you say—it can be found in the way you provide, the sacrifices you make, and the quiet ways you show up for the people who matter most.

As I've gotten older, I've realized those lessons shaped far more than I understood at the time. They shaped the person I became, the values I carry with me, and ultimately, the reason this mission feels so personal.

I hope the work we're doing at Vallige helps families find a little more connection during an incredibly difficult season of life. Whether that's through a familiar voice, a cherished photograph, or a story that brings someone comfort, those moments matter. They're the moments families remember.

When I visit Bernard now, I still see the same man who taught me those lessons. Dementia has changed many things about his life, but it hasn't changed who he is to me. He's still the man who packed the car for our summers in Sarnia, who quietly worked every day to provide for his family, and who unknowingly taught his grandson what it means to put family first.

Dementia may have changed many things.

But to me, he'll always be Bernard.

Image courtesy of Tristan Hurwitz