2nd October was my dad’s birthday. He’d have been 68 had he lived but he died in 2005. He’d had early onset Alzheimer’s and died from complications.

It was in learning about Alzheimer’s, both before and after he died, that I was introduced to the concept of the “Tyranny of the Should”. A quick google tells me the concept is credited to German psychoanalyst Karen Horney. It plagues everyone, but especially carers. It’s that sense of obligation that comes from “I should…” and creates tension between your ideal self and real self.

This concept and the ethos of “Take what you need in order to give what you can” (Paul Gilbert), are what I keep in mind when I think about how to support both myself and others.

For those unfamiliar with Alzheimer’s, it’s a form of dementia. This is an illness with growing prevalence and is sometimes called ‘The Long Goodbye’. It’s notoriously harder on family and friends than the loved one because, at some point, the person with dementia forgets almost everyone around them.

I was 12 when my dad was diagnosed, and my sister was 9 or 10. We weren’t told for a little while, not until I’d made an observation about his forgetfulness. I was 13 by then and, preempting the auditor I would become, required an interview with the GP to understand everything.

My dad was 46 at the time. I reassure anyone reading that this is extraordinarily early as far as ‘early’ is concerned. 60s is normal for ‘early’. At 13, I was told he had about 10 years to live. A quick bit of calculation told me that it was possible that by 23 I could graduate university, get married and have a child – all the expected actions of a good daughter that a dad would want to see. (Yes, I was suitably brainwashed by societal norms.)

What I hadn’t accounted for was the deterioration that happens between diagnosis and death. Nor the rapidity with which early onset takes hold. About 10 years was only an estimate, and it ended up generous.

Before I’d finished secondary school, we had carers who would come to occupy my dad until my mum got home. By the end of my a-levels, he’d moved into a care home. By the time I came to graduate university, he was dead.

I was plagued by the tyranny of the should prior to his death – I should visit him. I couldn’t do any of those other things that a daughter should do, but I should at least see him in his care home. My mum went multiple times per week.

I’ve talked to my mum about this since. I did not go very often, despite the ‘should’, because I found the visits traumatic. But I felt incredibly guilty for my lack of visits after he died. I was there when he died, but I felt I’d let him down somehow in my absence before. My mum dismissed this – she had never expected nor wanted me to go. He wasn’t my dad anymore. He wouldn’t have known who I was. Far better for a teenager to have memories of the good times – going for family trips, holidays, etc. – than the shadow he became.

Other people may have managed differently to me, but I needed to recognise that my ‘should’ was creating unnecessary stress. Looking back now, I don’t think my dad would have wanted me to see him that way either. He was always proud and strong in my memories. We certainly never spoke of his illness.

This also takes me back to that concept of “taking what you need in order to give what you can.” My mum and I are very different in what we can give. She joined the Alzheimer’s Society as a staff member in the years after dad died, supporting those with Alzheimer’s directly. I have endless respect for what all our care workers can give, because I know I can’t. Instead I look for what I can give, and for me that’s efforts like this blog or working long hours on complicated subjects for the public sector. I am incredibly lucky to have the skills I do. I fully believe that the fulfilment I get for giving what I can with those skills equates to the fulfilment that my mum obtained from her role. We all give differently. We all find our fulfilment differently. I think that is part of finding our ikigai.

I believe each of us can benefit from recognising when the tyranny of the should is whispering in our ears about anything. When we recognise it, we can challenge it: If we applied that ‘should’ to another person, would our expectation remain the same? I also believe that by recognising what we can give, and then following through on it, we’ll find ourselves closer to achieving ikigai, and far more resilient in refuting any ‘should’.

So I’ll end by saying happy birthday, Dad. You didn’t get to see me graduate, I’m not married and I don’t have children, but I think you’d be proud that I’m doing things like this. Thinking of you always.