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<p>This week I did something bold. I wrote an open letter to the Milken Institute — the ones who like to call themselves The Future of Aging.</p><p>Why? Because while they are busy on stages and in panels, the real future of aging is happening at my kitchen table.</p><p>It is my husband, Tim, who still drives, makes coffee, and thanks to this effort is back to writing. It is the millions of people like him living with early Alzheimer’s who deserve tools that help them keep doing what they love without being treated like they are already gone.</p><p>It is also the Supporters — the spouses, kids, grandkids, and friends — who want to help without hovering. MiM is being built for them too.</p><p>MiM is not a finished product. It is not backed by celebrities or institutions. It is being bootstrapped through scrappy real estate deals and long nights. It is raw, real, and necessary.</p><p>So I asked Milken a simple question: Will you show up for families like mine, or will history remember you as the panel that blinked?</p><p>👉 You can read my full open letter <a data-mce-href="https://mimconnect.substack.com/p/dear-milken" href="https://mimconnect.substack.com/p/dear-milken">here:https://mimconnect.substack.com/p/dear-milken</a></p><p>And if this resonates, please share it. Forward it to a friend, a colleague, or someone in your network who cares about the future of memory care.</p><p>Because MiM is about keeping families together for longer. And that is something none of us should miss.</p><p>Vanessa</p><p>If you’re reading this, you’re part of the MiM founding circle. Thank you for believing in the messy, kitchen-table stage of building something that matters</p>

Why I Wrote to Milken

<p>By Vanessa Saunders<br>Fear of learning something new is a universal experience — but in Alzheimer’s care, that fear can quickly become a wall. I’ve been writing about how fear blocks growth, and today’s Letter from Tim is a perfect counterpoint: proof that small steps forward, whether it’s puzzles or even an Apple Watch, can wake up a quiet part of the brain.</p><h3><strong>Letter from Tim</strong></h3><h3>Before my diagnosis with early Alzheimer’s, learning something new felt more like a choice. Now it sometimes feels like a necessity — and yes, a little scary. I don’t think I’m alone in that.</h3><figure id="figure-c4q4bbtzwmf7cgf90"><img id="c4q4bbtzwmf7cgf90" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/40vuByuTq3Ugy6vcsusUIWevGjA7aweMQJGtXeR5ujit5uggmhrSFjbjVGNMXFtJ.png" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-2xl md:rounded-3xl lg:rounded-4xl" style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="" data-positionx="undefined" data-positiony="undefined" data-fullwidth="false" data-mce-src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/40vuByuTq3Ugy6vcsusUIWevGjA7aweMQJGtXeR5ujit5uggmhrSFjbjVGNMXFtJ.png" data-mce-style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;"></figure><h3>Fear of learning isn’t always about the thing itself. It’s about worrying whether we’ll look foolish, or whether our brains can handle it. But here’s what I’ve discovered: the more I push past that fear, the more I find I can still learn, and the better I feel about myself when I do.</h3><h3>Some days that means tackling a crossword puzzle that seems impossible at first glance. Other days it’s figuring out how to make my phone do something I didn’t think it could. Each time I try, I find my brain firing in ways that remind me it hasn’t given up — and neither should I.</h3><h3>It’s not about pretending fear doesn’t exist. It’s about facing it, taking one step, and letting the brain surprise you with what it can still do.</h3><h3>—Tim</h3><p><br></p>

From Dick Tracy to Apple Watch: Learning Never Stops

<p>Broccoli has a branding problem. Parents decide kids won’t like it, so it never even makes it to the fork. The “never” isn’t about taste — it’s about projection.</p><figure id="figure-a4rmhj5dtfmf7c5978"><img id="a4rmhj5dtfmf7c5978" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/16ntc9J8uaOn2vLdQB2RDAs17AuQ2lhuu3XGIjAo8U6XZ7I1RAHgT0wG6rTB5oMK.png" alt="A hand held up in refusal in front of a plate of steamed broccoli and sliced carrots, symbolizing resistance to trying new things." title="A hand held up in refusal in front of a plate of steamed broccoli and sliced carrots, symbolizing resistance to trying new things." class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-2xl md:rounded-3xl lg:rounded-4xl" style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="It’s not about broccoli. It’s about fear dressed up as certainty." data-positionX="undefined" data-positionY="undefined" data-fullWidth="false"/><figcaption class="body-normal text-gray-500 mt-2">It’s not about broccoli. It’s about fear dressed up as certainty.</figcaption></figure><p>The same thing happens in Alzheimer’s care. Supporters sometimes say with absolute certainty:</p><p>“He’ll never wear an Apple Watch.”<br>“She can’t use reminders.”<br>“They won’t do that.”<br>Most of the time, that “never” isn’t tested. And so dignity, independence, and opportunity shrink to fit inside four walls.</p><p>That’s why I started MiM. It’s not about gadgets. It’s about rhythm, reminders, and small wins — broccoli blended into soup instead of raw florets shoved on a plate.</p><p>Fear, certainty, and projection can stop a Traveler before they’ve even had the chance to try. But what if “never” really just means “not yet” or “not like that”?</p><p>Today’s Letter from Tim is living proof. He’s not a “tech guy,” but he wears an Apple Watch every day. Why? Because given the chance, he tried. And then he found it worked.</p>

It Starts With Broccoli

<figure id="figure-asjeqacn6cmf5hrvoj"><img id="asjeqacn6cmf5hrvoj" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/1a7y6x3YdhG4bM0nygpS0BAW2hmA7txn1ktgboSsBi6TJqJFg0xMoZfWcamL4VyG.png" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-2xl md:rounded-3xl lg:rounded-4xl" style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="" data-positionX="undefined" data-positionY="undefined" data-fullWidth="false"/></figure><h3>Advocacy isn’t a polite word we sprinkle in for good measure. For MiM, it’s the backbone. Alzheimer’s (and especially early-onset Alzheimer’s) is not just a medical condition. It’s a cultural taboo, a stigma so thick that too many families whisper instead of shout, and suffer in silence because of it.</h3><h3>To advocate is to break that silence. To say, this isn’t good enough — not for my husband Tim, not for the millions of families like ours. It means refusing to nod quietly while systems fail, and instead showing up with stubborn hope, clarity, and yes, a bit of irreverence.</h3><h3>Here’s what advocacy looks like with MiM:</h3><h3>Giving structure and dignity back. Routines and agency, not pity checklists.<br>Confronting policy blind spots. When Medicare or Medicaid cuts off support, families collapse under the weight. That’s not acceptable.<br>Erasing stigma. Talking about dementia openly — and naming early-onset Alzheimer’s — chips away at the fear and shame that isolate families.<br>But here’s the truth: I can’t do this alone. MiM needs advocates. People willing to use their voices, their networks, and their courage to help change the narrative around dementia.</h3><h3>👉 <a data-mce-href="https://livewithmim.org/register" href="https://livewithmim.org/register">Register here to become a MiM Advocate.</a></h3><h3>By joining, you’re not just clicking a link. You’re helping us push back against stigma, raise the volume on real solutions, and tell every family facing Alzheimer’s that they are not alone.</h3><h3>Can you be our advocate too?</h3>

Advocacy: What It Means for MiM

<h2>Why Families With Early-Onset Alzheimer’s Keep Falling Through (the GAP)</h2><p>When you’re handed an Early-Onset Alzheimer’s diagnosis, you’d think the medical world would rally like a pit crew at the Indy 500 — fast, coordinated, everyone knowing their lane.</p><p>Instead, what you get looks more like the DMV on a Friday afternoon. Long waits. Conflicting directions. Nobody talking to each other.</p><p>It’s not a system. It’s a canyon — wide, jagged, and deeply fragmented. And unless you’ve tried to navigate it with someone you love, you’d never know how easy it is to fall through.</p><p>&nbsp;<br><strong>When the System Hands You Pamphlets</strong><br>When Tim was diagnosed, by Generations of Manchester, NH, we expected support.</p><p>What we got was a stack of glossy pamphlets about “preparing for decline.”<br>No roadmap. No coordination. No mention of treatments, trials, or lifestyle interventions that could slow the disease.</p><p>It was essentially a death sentence in brochure form.</p><p>And while families like ours are left with nothing but paper, the Alzheimer’s Association has raised hundreds of millions. Their answer when we asked for help to develop MiM? “There’s no money.”</p><p>No money? Then what are all those millions for? Purple balloon galas? Branded walks? Because they’re clearly not making their way into the hands of families who need them most.</p><p>That’s not care. That’s abandonment. And it’s happening every day.</p><p>&nbsp;<br><strong>The Specialists Shuffle</strong><br>You’ve got the neurologist who orders tests but doesn’t address daily living.<br>The primary care doc who shrugs because “this is out of my lane.”<br>The psychiatrist who treats symptoms in isolation.<br>And the insurance company who’d rather wrestle a porcupine than approve a PET scan.</p><p>None of them are coordinated. It’s whack-a-mole medicine, and the mole is you.</p><p>&nbsp;<br><strong>The Doors Inside the Canyon</strong><br>The cruel part? Families do find “doors” inside this canyon. But most are locked, mislabeled, or slam shut just as you reach them.</p><p>The Insurance Door<br>Under 65? Too young for Medicare. You fight private insurance for every test and trial.<br>Over 65? Medicare exists, but it’s only half-open — some scans, some drugs, endless denials.<br>The Clinical Trials Door<br>Younger patients? Too rare. Older patients? Too late. Tim is 74. At 75, some studies won’t even let him in.<br>The Care Ecosystem Door<br>Too young? “Sorry, you’re not a senior yet.”<br>Old enough? “Sure, we have programs — but they’re built for later-stage decline, not for someone who still writes, golfs, and lives with rhythm.”<br>It’s the sick joke of Alzheimer’s care:<br>👉 Too young for the rocking chair. Too old for the cutting edge.</p><p>&nbsp;<br><strong>The Cost of Fragmentation</strong><br>This canyon doesn’t just waste time — it costs families years of clarity they could have had. They bounce between specialists like ping-pong balls, burning through savings, patience, and hope.</p><p>Meanwhile, innovation exists — AI, digital health, even blockchain for transparency. But the ecosystem is too fractured to scale it. So families are left standing at the edge, watching doors slam shut, with nowhere to turn.</p><p>&nbsp;<br><strong>Why MiM Exists</strong><br>That’s why we built Memory in Motion (MiM).</p><p>Not another app. A side entrance. A lifeline.</p><p>MiM doesn’t care if you’re 55 or 75. It’s not about waiting for the “right door” to open. It’s about building a bridge across the canyon — with daily rhythms, reminders, anchors of identity, and connection that restores dignity.</p><p>Because until medicine learns to speak with one voice — and until organizations stop hoarding millions while handing out pamphlets — it’s the patients who pay the price for the silence</p><p>&nbsp;<br><strong>A Clarion Call</strong><br>We can’t wait for perfect systems or polished protocols. We need real support, built with and for the people living this journey now.</p><p>That’s what MiM is — and that’s why we’re asking you to add your voice. Whether you’re a Traveler, a Supporter, an Advocate, or an Investor, your registration shows that this work matters.</p><p><strong><a data-mce-href="https://livewithmim.org/register" href="https://livewithmim.org/register" target="_blank" rel="noopener">👉 Register here at livewithmim.org</a></strong></p><p>Because Alzheimer’s shouldn’t mean silence, shame, or waiting.</p>

The Canyon

<figure id="figure-z92f9w4gzvmehd3xe4"><img id="z92f9w4gzvmehd3xe4" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/33ygmhfCGvRrfCwHBYN5gcXVGHS9SsYjxSQlKpDfDLkVJpw6mjQ6vey0pDX7pM7n.png" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-2xl md:rounded-3xl lg:rounded-4xl" style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: 95% 25%;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="" data-positionx="95%" data-positiony="25%" data-fullwidth="false" data-mce-src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/33ygmhfCGvRrfCwHBYN5gcXVGHS9SsYjxSQlKpDfDLkVJpw6mjQ6vey0pDX7pM7n.png" data-mce-style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: 95% 25%;"></figure><h2>The Case of the Harvard Researcher Who Wasn’t</h2><h3>Today on As the Snake Oil Turns…<br>A mysterious “Harvard researcher” has apparently uncovered the shocking cause of memory loss. Never mind that no one can tell us his name, his department, or what journal he published in.</h3><p>The plot thickens:<br>“Memory loss isn’t a natural part of aging,” the ad says, “it’s the brain’s response to something specific we’ve been overlooking.”</p><p>The shocking villain?<br>Not amyloid plaques. Not lifestyle risk factors. Not decades of NIH-backed research. No, friends — our villain turns out to be… turmeric tea. Suspiciously priced at $49.99 a month, conveniently available if you click below.</p><figure id="figure-8fmv9bq85lmehd2zik"><img id="8fmv9bq85lmehd2zik" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/5wEvJDI2lFm3tciQ6fZbqJH0r3eGKxv5eryGaZDfZMpFLcDYe35qIyppX9tNCYGw.jpg" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-2xl md:rounded-3xl lg:rounded-4xl" style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: 50% 5%;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="" data-positionx="50%" data-positiony="5%" data-fullwidth="false" data-mce-src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/5wEvJDI2lFm3tciQ6fZbqJH0r3eGKxv5eryGaZDfZMpFLcDYe35qIyppX9tNCYGw.jpg" data-mce-style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: 50% 5%;"></figure><p>And the cliffhanger:<br>Will this unnamed Harvard hero save us from ourselves? Or will another Facebook ad convince your uncle to stockpile brain pills between his Bitcoin wallet and his Franklin Mint commemorative coins?</p><h3>👉 Stay tuned for Episode 2: “The Miracle Berry That Big Pharma Doesn’t Want You to Know About.”</h3><p>&nbsp;<br>📌 Why I Write This<br>As the Snake Oil Turns isn’t just for laughs. These hope-killing ads prey on fear — and on families like mine. When my husband was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, we were buried in “miracle” cures, powders, and empty promises.</p><p>That’s why I’m building MiM (Memory in Motion). No snake oil, no $49.99 turmeric tea. Just structure, dignity, and tools that actually help people live better with early Alzheimer’s.</p><p>Because real support means helping someone be more themselves, not less.</p>

🎭 As the Snake Oil Turns: Episode 1

Memory In Motion