In January 2019, Peter Middleton was diagnosed with young-onset Alzheimer’s disease at the age of 64. Here, he shares how he continues to live well with dementia, nearly eight years on.

Life isn’t a straight line. It’s a winding path with surprising turns, moments of fog, and moments of absolute clarity. Some days you cope easily; others feel like wading through treacle. It’s no different after a diagnosis of dementia, except that the twists and turns are more pronounced. Two things have consistently helped me navigate my dementia journey with hope, connection and even joy: laughter and reminiscence.

People often assume dementia means sadness, decline and loss. And yes, those things exist. But so does mischief, silliness, and the ability to laugh at myself when I pick up an orange and ask my wife if she’d like an apple.

Humour gives me back a sense of control. When I laugh at the oddities dementia throws my way, I’m choosing my response. I’m saying: “You might be scrambling my memory, but you’re not going to steal my joy.”

Laughter also keeps me connected to others. Dementia can make conversations harder. I lose words, repeat myself, and drift. But a shared laugh cuts through that. It’s instant, human and equalising. When someone laughs with me, not at me, it reminds me that I’m still me: still social, still warm, still capable of sparking joy in others. That’s why I run comedy workshops and drop-ins.

And laughter is so forgiving. If I forget the punchline halfway through a joke, it doesn’t matter. We simply laugh at that instead. And, if I tell the same joke twice, people smile and say it was just as good the second time. Humour softens the edges of embarrassment and turns it into moments of companionship.

If laughter keeps me moving forward, reminiscence keeps me rooted.

Dementia can make the present slippery. I sometimes lose track of what I’m doing or why I walked into a room. But my past, my stories, my memories and my experiences often remain vivid. Reminiscence isn’t about living in the past; it’s about using the past to strengthen my present.

When I talk about my childhood, my years as a plumber or RAF aircraft engineer, or the adventures I’ve had, I feel grounded, whole and like my old self. These stories remind me that dementia is only one part of my life.

Reminiscence also helps me connect with others more deeply. When I share a memory, I’m offering a piece of myself. And when someone listens, really listens, it tells me that my life, my experiences and my voice still matter.

Sometimes reminiscence happens naturally. A song comes on the radio, and suddenly I’m back in a particular year, with a particular person, doing a particular thing. Other times it’s intentional. I look through old photos, talk with friends or join dementia groups where stories flow freely and without judgement.

And do you know what? Even when my memory falters, the feelings remain. I may forget the details of a holiday, but I always recall the warmth, the laughter, and the sense of belonging. Reminiscence helps me hold onto those feelings, even when the facts slip away.

Individually, laughter and reminiscence are powerful. Together, they’re transformative. The best medicine.

When I reminisce with humour, telling stories of past mishaps, silly moments or the daft things I got up to, I feel doubly alive. I’m celebrating who I was and who I am now. I’m acknowledging the challenges of dementia while refusing to let them overshadow the richness of my life.

This combination of humour and nostalgia also helps others around me feel comfortable. Dementia can make people nervous. They worry about saying the wrong thing. But when I laugh and share stories, it signals that I’m still approachable, still human and still capable of joy. It opens the door to connection.

I won’t pretend the dementia journey is easy. But I’ll say this: laughter and reminiscence help me live well. They help me stay connected to myself and others. They help me find meaning in moments that might otherwise feel confusing or overwhelming.

Most importantly, they remind me that dementia hasn’t taken away my ability to feel joy, share stories, or make others smile. Those things are still mine, and they are why I live well with dementia.

And as long as I can laugh and remember enough to tell a good story, I’ll keep living well, one happy moment at a time.