I did not expect to begin forgetting things this soon. Not birthdays, not medications, not why I entered a room, and certainly not the names of people I love. But that is what has been happening. Slowly, not suddenly, as memory loss often does. It is not dramatic at first. It is not like the movies. There are no violins in the background, no misty monologues. It starts with confusion. It deepens then into frustration. And then it grows into something even more insidious—doubt. Doubt about yourself. Doubt about your abilities. Doubt about your future.

I am living with a rare disease—Multiple Endocrine Neoplasia, types 1 and 2. Most people who have heard of MEN know it for its tumors. For its effects on glands, hormones, and metabolism. But in my case, it is something more. This disease has begun impacting my mind—specifically, my short-term memory. That is why I am writing now. Before this disease takes more from me than it already has, I want to document what it means to live through the early stages of cognitive decline. I want to leave something real, something useful, something true.

This is not just a diary entry. It is the first chapter in a new series I am starting while I still can. It is my way of taking back control over something that tries to steal it from me every day. And in this first entry, I want to talk about two seemingly unrelated tools that have given me unexpected hope—semaglutide and LEGO® bricks. One is a medication. The other is a toy. But for me, they are both survival tools.

Let us start with semaglutide. You may know it as Ozempic or Wegovy. These names have become famous in recent years, primarily for weight loss and blood sugar control. But behind the headlines is something even more intriguing for someone like me: its potential to improve cognitive function and reduce the progression of Alzheimer’s disease. According to a study published in Neuron and summarized by News-Medical.net, semaglutide reduced the buildup of amyloid-beta plaques and tau tangles in both mice and human brain models—key hallmarks of Alzheimer’s.

Even more compelling, semaglutide improved synaptic communication and neuronal health in the prefrontal cortex, an area essential for short-term memory, attention, and executive functioning. These are exactly the areas that feel weakest for me right now. The ability to focus on a task. The ability to recall why I started something. The ability to hold onto information for more than a few minutes. These cognitive abilities are not luxuries. They are lifelines. If semaglutide can offer even partial restoration—or slow the rate of decline—I am willing to try it.

This is not an endorsement. I am not a physician. I am not handing out advice. But I am doing what every person with a rare, poorly understood illness has to do: I am becoming my own researcher. I have printed the studies. I have marked the relevant sections. I have made appointments. I am asking my physicians hard questions. Can this be used off-label? Are there known cognitive side effects in patients with MEN? What dosage is appropriate for neuroprotective benefits rather than glucose control?

These questions are not easy, and the answers are not guaranteed. But what is guaranteed is this: I cannot afford to wait passively while my memory disappears. Every minute counts. Every conversation matters. Every choice I make now is a brick in the structure I am building—not just to save myself, but to leave behind something that makes sense to others walking this same path.

While semaglutide gives me hope from the inside, there is another intervention that has caught me by surprise. Something far more tactile. Something bright, colorful, and—to be honest—something I never imagined would become part of my adult healthcare routine: LEGO® bricks.

LEGO® therapy was featured recently in a piece published by AARP. A team of researchers in the UK explored how people with dementia responded to structured, collaborative LEGO® building sessions. The results were quietly remarkable. Participants demonstrated increased concentration, greater emotional presence, and improved social interaction. In many cases, people who had become withdrawn began to smile. To speak. To remember.

That last part—that is what stopped me cold. To remember. Not perfectly. Not always. But meaningfully. A former construction worker remembered his job sites while building a small scaffold out of plastic bricks. A woman remembered her mother’s garden when she created a small bouquet. These were not memories pulled from photographs or forced into being. They were memories that emerged naturally—anchored by touch, texture, and play.

After reading this article, I decided to try it myself. I set out a small container of bricks on my kitchen table and gave myself permission to play. At first, I felt ridiculous. Was I really going to fight dementia with a plastic toy? But something shifted the moment I picked up the first brick. My fingers knew what to do even before my brain had formed a plan. I began stacking, rearranging, creating. I lost track of time—in the best way possible. I was not distracted. I was immersed. Present. Engaged.

That presence is no small gift. When your memory begins to fail, your sense of identity falters with it. You begin to wonder who you are without your stories. Without your timelines. Without your precision. But in building, I found something new. I found a version of myself who was not defined by what he remembered, but by what he was doing. Brick by brick, I built a little tower. Nothing fancy. But it was mine. Every decision, every color choice, every layer reflected a part of me that still works. That still knows. That still builds.

LEGO® therapy works because it bypasses the brain’s damaged highways and finds the side roads. It engages planning, sequencing, color recognition, spatial awareness, and tactile feedback—all without demanding perfection. Unlike crossword puzzles or memory games, which can feel punishing when you fail, LEGO® has no wrong answers. It invites creation, not correction.

I began incorporating LEGO® sessions into my weekly routine. I also began noticing changes. Not massive transformations. But subtle, real improvements. I was less agitated. I was more focused. I was sleeping better. I even remembered to follow up on my appointments and medications without sticky notes. That may not seem like a triumph. But for someone facing the daily erosion of memory, that is a miracle.

Since then, I have started exploring other aspects of cognitive preservation. One of the most obvious—and most overlooked—is diet. We now know that brain health is directly tied to gut health, inflammation, and glucose control. Diets high in processed sugar, saturated fat, and refined carbohydrates can impair cognitive function. In contrast, diets rich in antioxidants, omega-3 fatty acids, leafy greens, berries, and lean protein have been shown to slow cognitive decline.

I have adopted what many call the MIND diet—a blend of the Mediterranean and DASH diets—designed to support cognitive resilience. I eat more fish. More spinach. More blueberries. I have cut back significantly on red meat, dairy, and processed foods. I drink more water and less caffeine. Do I still crave chocolate? Of course. But I also crave clarity more.

Supplements are another area of exploration. I take vitamin D, vitamin K, Vitamin E, magnesium, and a B-complex daily. I have discussed the use of lion’s mane mushroom and phosphatidylserine with my doctor, both of which have been associated with memory support in small studies. Again, I am not suggesting there is a cure hidden in the health food aisle. But I am saying that what we put in our bodies matters—especially when our brains are fighting for survival.

Equally important is communication. One of the hardest parts of early cognitive decline is admitting to your loved ones what is happening. There is shame. There is fear. There is grief. But there is also freedom in honesty. I have told my family the truth. I have let them see my sticky notes. I have invited them into my doctor visits. I have asked them to help me build a legacy now—not after I am gone, but while I am still here.

We have started recording stories. Simple things. Childhood memories. First jobs. Favorite meals. Inside jokes. I want them to have those things when I can no longer recall them. I want them to know that I tried. That I was present for as long as I could be. That I did not fade quietly into the background. That I built.

To support that process, I have also begun using specific memory tools. I keep a detailed calendar. I use a voice recorder to capture important thoughts before they slip away. I label cabinets. I use checklists for medications. I have one notebook for everything, so I do not lose track of multiple journals. These tools are not glamorous. They are not trending on social media. But they work. They allow me to maintain dignity. To function. To live.

I have also joined a support group for individuals with early-stage memory loss. Some have Alzheimer’s. Others have Parkinson’s. Some are like me, living with rare diseases that defy easy categorization. But we share something sacred: a commitment to showing up. To documenting. To laughing when possible. To crying when necessary. This group has become my sanctuary. We do not pity each other. We empower each other. And that makes all the difference.

So why am I telling you all of this? Because I want to remember. Because I want to be remembered. Because someone else out there is beginning to forget and thinks they are alone. You are not. This post is for you. This series is for every person fighting to hold on to their mind, their story, their worth. You are not a lost cause. You are not broken. You are building something beautiful, even now.

I am still here. I remember enough to keep writing. To keep trying. To keep placing one brick after another in the structure of my life. It may wobble. It may shift. But it is real. It is mine. And it is not done yet.