When a Person With Dementia Says “I Want to Go Home”—Even When They Are Home

“I want to go home.”

If you care for someone with dementia, there is a good chance you have heard these words. Sometimes they are said from a memory care room that has been carefully decorated with familiar photographs and belongings. Sometimes they are said while sitting in the house where the person has lived for years.

And sometimes the “home” they are looking for no longer exists.

For families, this can be heartbreaking—and confusing. Your first instinct may be to explain:

But you are home.

Or:

You don’t live there anymore.

But dementia can change a person’s relationship with time, memory, and place. When someone with dementia asks to go home, the most helpful response may begin not with correcting the facts, but with trying to understand what “home” means to them in that moment.

I learned this through my own mom.

When My Mom Wanted to Go Home

After my mom moved into memory care, she would sometimes talk about leaving. During one conversation, she asked me something along the lines of:

“Do you think I should sell this place and go back to one of my other houses?”

As we talked, it became clear which house she was remembering.

It was a house on a lake, and it had been one of her favorite places.

It wasn’t difficult to understand why.

She could watch the morning sunrise over the water. There was a hot tub on the back porch. And every morning, a blue heron would come to visit.

My mom fed that heron a hot dog.

Was that perhaps an unconventional breakfast for a blue heron? Absolutely.

But it became part of the rhythm of her life there.

Sunrise. Water. Her porch. Her hot tub. And that blue heron waiting for its hot dog.

Initially, it would have been easy to assume that was what she wanted back.

The house.

But I kept talking with her.

Instead of correcting her or explaining why returning to that house wasn’t possible, I tried to understand what she was remembering and what she was really asking for.

And slowly, the conversation changed.

She Wasn’t Really Asking for the House

That house wasn’t just a beautiful place my mom had lived.

It represented a period of her life when our family spent time together. It held memories of me and my children being there with her. It represented connection, family and belonging.

As I continued to delve into what she meant when she said she wanted to go home, we eventually reached what was underneath it.

She missed me and the children.

She wanted to spend more time with us.

When we finally reached that point in the conversation, my mom broke down crying.

And suddenly, what she had been trying to tell me became much clearer.

She loved us. She missed us when we weren’t there. She wanted more time with us.

She wasn’t really asking me to find a way to return her to that house on the lake.

When my mom was talking about home, she was talking about us.

That realization changed the way I thought about the words “I want to go home.”

Sometimes “Home” Isn’t a Place

For most of us, home is much more than an address.

Home can mean:

I know where I am.

I know what happens next.

I am safe here.

These things belong to me.

I am surrounded by people I love.

I recognize myself here.

I belong here.

For someone living with dementia, some of those feelings can become increasingly difficult to find.

A person may remember an earlier home more clearly than their current surroundings. Their internal sense of time may place them in another decade. They may be remembering their childhood home, the house where they raised their children, or a place associated with a particularly happy period of life.

But the physical place may only be part of the memory.

The person may also be remembering who they were there and who was there with them.

That’s what I eventually realized with my mom.

The lake house represented beautiful things—the sunrise, the water, the hot tub and even that blue heron.

But it also represented family.

Listen for the Question Underneath the Question

My experience with my mom taught me not to assume that I understand what someone with dementia means simply because I understand the words they’re using.

When someone says, “I want to go home,” we may hear a request for transportation or a change in living arrangements.

But underneath those words might be something entirely different:

I miss you.

I’m lonely.

I want my family.

I’m frightened.

I don’t recognize this place.

I want to feel like I belong somewhere.

I want things to feel familiar again.

I want to feel like myself.

We won’t always be able to uncover exactly what “home” means. And we shouldn’t assume that every person—or even the same person every time they say it—is expressing the same need.

But we can become curious.

Instead of immediately responding:

“But you are home.”

We might ask:

“Tell me about home.”

“What do you miss about it?”

“Who was there with you?”

“What did you love about living there?”

“What do you wish you had right now?”

And then listen.

The answer may surprise us.

Why Correcting Someone Doesn’t Always Help

Our natural instinct is often to orient someone back to reality.

“You live here now.”

“We sold that house years ago.”

“You haven’t lived there in twenty years.”

The information may be completely accurate.

But if dementia has affected the person’s ability to access or retain that information, correcting them may not accomplish what we hope it will.

Imagine believing that a house you love is still waiting for you and suddenly being told it was sold years ago.

You may experience that loss as though it has just happened.

And because of dementia, you may later forget the explanation while still retaining some of the distress it created.

That doesn’t mean families should never tell the truth or never help orient someone to the present. Dementia affects people differently, and factual information is important in some circumstances.

Instead, it can help to ask ourselves:

Is correcting this detail going to help the person I love right now?

Sometimes connection accomplishes more than correction.

Look for the Need Behind the Words

There is another important reason not to dismiss “I want to go home” as simply something people with dementia say.

Sometimes those words really do mean:

Something isn’t right.

Consider what else may be happening.

Is the person tired?

Hungry or thirsty?

In pain?

Do they need to use the bathroom?

Is the environment particularly loud or busy?

Has something changed in their routine?

Are they looking for a spouse, parent, child, pet or another familiar person?

Are they lonely?

Are they frightened?

Are they becoming more confused later in the day?

Sometimes the most effective response to “I want to go home” isn’t a conversation about home at all.

It may be a snack. A quieter room. Familiar music. Looking through photographs together. A walk. A favorite activity. A telephone call with someone they love.

Or simply having someone sit beside them.

And if confusion or behavior changes suddenly or significantly, that deserves attention as well. New or worsening confusion can sometimes have a medical cause and should be discussed with the person’s healthcare team.

Don’t Turn It Into an Argument You Need to Win

This may be one of the hardest adjustments for families.

We spend our lives using facts to resolve disagreements.

With dementia, proving that you’re right doesn’t necessarily solve the problem.

You can win the argument and still leave the person you love frightened, embarrassed, angry or grieving.

There are certainly times when safety requires a firm boundary. Someone cannot simply leave a memory care community because they believe another home is waiting for them.

But a boundary can still be delivered with compassion.

Instead of asking:

How do I convince them that they’re wrong?

Try asking:

What are they trying to tell me?

And then:

How can I help them feel safe right now?

Helping a New Place Feel More Like Home

When someone moves into assisted living or memory care, families often try to bring pieces of home with them—photographs, furniture, blankets, artwork and other familiar belongings.

Those things can absolutely help.

But belonging isn’t created through decorating alone.

It can also develop through routine and relationship.

The same chair.

The same morning coffee.

The staff member who remembers how they like their breakfast.

A familiar song.

A regular visit.

A photograph that starts a favorite story.

A predictable bedtime routine.

A familiar voice on the telephone.

Over time, those repeated experiences may provide some of the familiarity and security that “home” represents.

That doesn’t mean the person will never ask to leave.

But it may create more moments when where they are feels safe, recognizable and connected.

When You Can’t Give Them the Home They’re Asking For

This may be the hardest part for caregivers.

When someone you love looks at you and asks you to take them home—and you know you can’t—it hurts.

Even when you know they need the level of care they’re receiving.

Even when you’ve carefully considered the alternatives.

Even when you know that returning to a previous home isn’t safe or possible.

Knowing that a decision is necessary doesn’t make it emotionally easy.

I can’t give my mom back that house on the lake.

I can’t recreate every morning sunrise over the water, the hot tub on the porch or that exact chapter of her life.

And I certainly can’t guarantee that a blue heron will arrive each morning expecting its hot dog.

But that conversation taught me that I had been thinking about “home” too literally.

My mom wasn’t asking me to recreate the house.

She was telling me something I could respond to.

She missed us.

She wanted time with me and my children.

And once I understood that, I could respond to the need underneath the words—even if I couldn’t give her the place she thought she was asking for.

A Final Thought

The next time someone with dementia says:

“I want to go home,”

resist the urge to immediately explain where home is.

Stay curious for a little while.

Ask about it.

Who was there?

What do they remember?

What do they miss?

What would make them feel better right now?

Sometimes home may mean a familiar building. Sometimes it may represent independence, safety, identity or a period of life that felt easier to understand.

And sometimes, as I learned from my mom, home isn’t where someone wants to go at all.

Home is who they’re trying to get back to.

For my mom, in that moment, home was us.

And I might never have understood that if I had simply told her:

“But Mom, you are already home.”