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What is my inspiration? I feel fickle when asked. As if a singular response is lying. When my inspiration is constantly changing, boasting so many faces, how can I name it? Is it the grand scale 850,000 living with dementia in the UK? Or the comparatively microscopic woman who narrated being the sole carer for her husband, consumed 20 years by the disease? Is it, professionally, the scientists, communicating their work in the noble pursuit of sharing the truth in a world rife with infamous fallacies? Or is, personally, my blood who carved inspirations from themselves to ensure that I had the luxury of inspiration? As a researcher is it immigrants who shared with me adversities faced in health services? As a human is it a grandparent who sees my mother when it’s my face? The question shouldn’t be ‘What is my inspiration?’ In fact, it should be, what isn’t?