Sticks to Light Your Fire

I remember with fondness the first client I treated in my clinic who lived with dementia. Each consultation began with his cheerful, heartfelt rendition of a song he called “Sticks to Light My Fire”. It was a cheeky ditty about keeping warm—literally, by having enough fuel for his fire, but also about the warmth of home, of romance and rekindling stories of his wife. Over time, this ritual took on another meaning for us: it kept his memories warm and alive, and it set the tone for our sessions. His musical regale became an expression of his warmth and humour. He taught me to allow extra time to be fully present with him, to forge connection, and to check—through his responses—that he felt comfortable and safe. Extra time is often crucial when holding space for a client living with dementia.

When I began to specialise and work more within my community, I discovered a depth of presence that required me to slow right down, giving space for a person to be heard by listening with the whole of my being. I’m deeply grateful to the people who have shared their knowledge and experiences, each improving my practice in different ways—clients offering feedback on what massage techniques worked for them and why, carers sharing insights that deepened my understanding of meeting unspoken needs, and colleagues who helped me think more carefully about behaviour as communication of unmet needs or unexpressed feelings. These lessons helped me refine my communication approaches and navigate challenges more meaningfully. They are the building blocks of trust in this richly rewarding relational work.

Consent can be tricksy, requiring us to navigate both verbal and nonverbal cues. The beauty of learning this well is that it made me a better therapist in my general practice too. Having a working understanding of the laws that affect my practice and my clients’ rights also helped me advocate for them when needed. This knowledge proved invaluable when diplomatically addressing concerns or pursuing safeguarding issues. I find it’s best to be prepared; when alarm bells ring in my mind, knowing where to turn for guidance and support is empowering and helps resolve issues more positively.

Becoming a therapeutic parent gave me a deeper understanding of trauma and attachment—insights that apply not only to raising children but also to my personal and professional relationships. I often use the principles of Dan Hughes’ PACE model (Playfulness, Acceptance, Curiosity, Empathy) to build the understanding needed for trusted relationships. Luke J. Tanner’s Embracing Touch in Dementia Care also opened up fascinating ideas about how we present ourselves depending on attachment and relational dynamics, offering clues about how best to meet a client’s needs in any given moment.

Holding space takes time, and that includes  getting to know our clients—what makes them tick, what helps them feel safe? Do we gently create safety by degrees, or does a client prefer a no‑nonsense approach, wanting me to get on with the job efficiently?

When we wrap all this together—specific techniques from other disciplines, seasoned perspectives from experts in the field, generous illuminations from clients and loved ones, not to mention methods I’ve developed through exploring our craft—we end up with tried, tested, and now scientifically supported tools we can weave into treatments to suit each client in the moment.

I’ve gathered tips, techniques, and wonderful wisdom that enhance practice whether you’re treating a person living with dementia or not. Therapists often tell me these skills and insights enrich their wider work. Whether you’re experienced or still building your practice, there is so much to gain from becoming a dementia‑informed therapist—fuelling your passion with sticks to light your fire.