Submitted by Jerid Stevenot, MS, OT
Occupational therapy found me before I truly found it. In high school, no matter how many career aptitude tests I took, OT kept landing in the top five careers—though I had no idea what it was. My mom casually mentioned, “You saw an occupational therapist (OT) when you were a baby—and your cousin works with one too.” That’s when it clicked.
As a baby, I had underdeveloped stomach muscles. My sisters would sit me up just to watch me slowly slump over—innocent fun, but a sign I wasn’t meeting milestones like my twin. An OT used the power of play, one of our earliest occupations, to strengthen my core. My cousin, who had significant developmental delays related to autism, worked with an OT on toileting, emotional regulation, and academic goals. The impact of OT was all around me—I just hadn’t recognized it yet.
Curious and inspired, I job shadowed local OTs. I watched one work across long-term care facilities with remarkable adaptability. One moment she adjusted a splint, the next she addressed behavioral challenges, consulted on facility design, and led staff workshops. Her car was a mobile toolkit—heating pan, cognitive assessments, handouts, and wheelchair parts. But her deeper tools were her knowledge of anatomy, psychology, design, pharmacology, and creativity.
I quickly learned OTs don’t just help people get “jobs”—they enable them to live. To thrive. I was hooked.
This philosophy drives my work in dementia care—a space where meaningful activity can become both a lifeline and a legacy. Occupational therapy meets individuals and caregivers wherever they are in the journey. Early on, I use tools like the Occupational Performance History Interview to explore what brings meaning: favorite foods, music, roles, traditions. This guides tailored interventions that honor identity. These stories often become keepsakes—photo albums or scrapbooks to stimulate memory and connection.
As dementia progresses, occupational therapy needs to adapt. I conduct home and cognitive assessments, observing how individuals manage tasks like dressing or meal prep. I identify risks like clutter or poor lighting and recommend visual cues or task simplification to preserve independence. I might suggest adaptive clothing, install nightlights, or use tech solutions to keep the home safe. I also tailor routines to reduce agitation and introduce tools like grab bars or bath benches to support safety for both the person and caregiver.
I remember one couple who had just moved to an independent facility. The husband, who had dementia, became agitated in the evenings. His wife feared she couldn’t manage his care. I initiated a behavior log, which revealed his agitation spiked at 5 PM. Drawing on their life story, we added calming lighting, reintroduced classical music, and placed a mechanical therapy dog in his lap. A timer played music daily to relieve the cognitive burden. These simple interventions brought calm and connection. The husband relaxed. The wife saw herself as a partner again—not just a caregiver.
Caregivers carry so much—grief, stress, guilt, and isolation. They grieve changes in their loved ones and face overwhelming systems. My first job is to listen. Being seen and heard is healing. Then I educate—about what dementia is and why routines, behaviors, and meaningful objects matter. I teach caregivers to recognize cues, reduce fall risks, and build routines that support everyone’s well-being.
Of course, I don’t work in isolation. Dementia care is interdisciplinary. If I see weight loss, I collaborate with dietitians. If hygiene declines, I bring in nursing. If the caregiver shows signs of burnout, I connect them to social workers. And I coordinate constantly with primary care teams.
This is what drives me—dementia is not a straight path; it’s personal and shifting. My role as an OT is to meet people where they are, preserve meaning, and protect dignity.
Ultimately, what I wish more people understood about occupational therapy: it’s about honoring the human experience. Helping someone dress with dignity, eat with joy, move with confidence, and connect even as memory fades. Supporting caregivers so they can keep loving, not just managing. We don’t just teach tasks—we preserve identity. We empower people to live with purpose, connection, and grace.
Jerid resides in the Seattle area with his husband . He currently practices as an Occupational Therapist in the skilled nursing and rehab sector and is pursuing his MHA at the University of Washington - School of Public Health.
