Life in long‑term care is often discussed about residents, but far less often by residents. From the outside, shared rooms and routines may seem manageable. From the inside, they can feel overwhelming. I am sharing my experience not only for families and the public to better understand daily life in long‑term care, but also for those who shape the policies that govern it.

Living in a Shared Space with Ongoing Struggles

I currently live in a shared room, where privacy is minimal and peace can be hard to come by. At one point, I lived beside a woman who, although blind and elderly, brought a great deal of anxiety into our space. Her constant ringing of the call bell and banging it against the wall made restful sleep nearly impossible. Over time, the exhaustion built up to the point where I felt at my wits’ end, unable to find any sense of calm or recovery.

Just when I hoped some relief might be coming, a new roommate moved in. Our room is separated by nothing more than a curtain, and it quickly became clear that personal boundaries were not being respected. She frequently comes onto my side of the room without permission, takes my belongings, and moves furniture at all hours of the day and night. She also speaks on her phone late into the night, making sleep even more difficult. Eventually, the PSWs had to take her phone away at night so that I—and even the people she was calling—might get some rest.

The Cost of Sleep Deprivation on Healing

Sleep is not a luxury in long‑term care; it is essential for healing. I have had six surgeries in the past year and a half, and recovering in this environment has been extremely difficult. Despite raising concerns and trying to explain how serious the situation is for my health, meaningful and lasting change has been limited.

One compassionate PSW did advocate for me and arranged for a lock to be installed on the bathroom door connected to my room. That small step restored a bit of privacy, and I remain grateful for it. However, the larger issues remain unresolved. The disruptions continue, and the ongoing lack of rest makes recovery harder each day.

I understand that some residents face cognitive challenges, and that compassion is essential. At the same time, there must also be compassion for those of us who are cognitively intact and still vulnerable. I have documented my concerns and brought them to management, yet I continue to search for a sustainable solution. Too often, it feels as though being “the cognitive one” comes with the expectation that I should simply tolerate unlimited disruption, no matter the cost to my health or well‑being.

Why I Am Speaking Out

I am sharing this not to place blame on individuals, but to highlight a larger issue within long‑term care. When policies and room assignments do not adequately balance cognitive needs, privacy, and rest, residents are left to absorb the consequences. Families may not realize what daily life truly looks like behind the curtain. Policymakers may not hear how these decisions play out in real time, in real bodies, trying to heal.

A Question for Families, the Public, and Policymakers

What would you do if this were you, your loved one? How would you want to b supported if you were recovering from surgery, exhausted, and unable to escape constant disruption? How can long‑term care environments be structured so that all residents—regardless of cognitive status—are treated with dignity and fairness?

Resident voices are rare, but they matter. By listening, acknowledging these realities, and pushing for thoughtful solutions, meaningful change becomes possible.

Thank you for taking the time to listen to a resident’s experience. I hope it encourages deeper understanding and more compassionate decision‑making for those who live in long‑term care every day.