People and Progress: She Changed Me—But Was She Truly Capable of it?

I had a realization recently—one I’m not sure I’m ready to accept. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m unqualified to even have this thought. But I can’t shake it.

I met someone with Alzheimer’s. She had drifted far from who she used to be, unable to place herself in time, unable to recognize familiar faces. The world she built, the people she loved—faded. But something remained.

She had always been frugal. Not just careful, but obsessive. She counted every dollar, every cent, even when there was no reason to. If guests came over, she would serve just enough coffee, just enough snacks, making sure nothing was wasted. She turned off lights in empty rooms, adjusted the thermostat when no one was looking. It wasn’t about greed, it was something deeper.

And even now, even when memories were slipping like sand through her fingers, that part of her was untouched. She couldn’t remember my name, but she could remember to tell us to lower the air conditioning. It was winter.

It made me wonder—are we truly capable of change? We talk about growth, about overcoming flaws, about shaping ourselves into something new. But if a trait like that—something so small yet so defining—could survive the slow erosion of a person’s mind, what does that say about the rest of us?

How much of who we are is just... set? Are we simply who we are, unchangeable at the core? Or is change an illusion we cling to, hoping we can rewrite the parts of ourselves we don’t like?

I don’t know. But watching her, I felt like I was looking at something essential, something stripped down to its most honest form. And it left me unsettled.