Jessi Colter, the soulful voice behind “I’m Not Lisa”, isn’t just fading from the spotlight—she’s fading from memory. Not the public’s memory—her fans still hum her melodies, still remember the haunting sincerity in her lyrics—but her own. Piece by painful piece, Alzheimer’s is stealing her past, erasing the decades that once made her a beacon of strength, creativity, and country resilience.

Her son, Shooter Jennings, watches this heartbreaking transformation in quiet devastation. Jessi was never just a singer. She was a wife, a mother, a survivor. She walked alongside Waylon Jennings through the wild days of outlaw country, raising a son in a world of legends, guitars, and midnight studio sessions. But now, that vibrant world—the laughter, the music, the love—is slipping into the shadows.

Shooter visits her often. He brings vinyl records, hoping the sound of her own voice might stir something inside. Sometimes it works. For a few precious seconds, her eyes light up, her lips twitch with recognition. She hums a line from a song she once wrote. Then it’s gone, like a dream lost upon waking.

The hardest moments, he says, are the in-between. The pauses when she stares at him, trying to remember why his face seems so familiar. She often calls him “Waylon” now—not out of confusion, but with longing, like she’s reaching back across time to touch the man she loved. “Hoss, is that you?” she asked one evening, her voice soft as falling leaves. It was a nickname she used for Shooter as a boy. Hearing it again nearly broke him.

“I smiled,” Shooter later recalled in an emotional interview. “Because if I didn’t, I would’ve cried. And sometimes I do cry. After I leave. After she’s asleep. But never in front of her. She needs strength. She needs love. That’s all she’s ever given me.”

Despite the fading of her memory, there are flashes—moments of clarity when Jessi becomes herself again. Like when he played her a rare Waylon demo she hadn’t heard in years. Her eyes filled with tears, and she whispered the lyrics before falling silent, as if retreating into the safety of a memory she could still feel.

Fans around the world have begun sending letters, old album covers, even cassette tapes—little tokens of the time when Jessi Colter ruled the airwaves. Her home has become a shrine of sorts, filled with memories she can no longer claim. But for Shooter, each item is a gift, a chance to remind his mother that her life mattered. That her music mattered.

“Alzheimer’s is cruel,” he said. “It doesn’t just take the person away—it takes their story. I’m fighting every day to make sure her story is never forgotten. Even if she forgets it herself.”

In private moments, Shooter sings to her. Not her own songs, but lullabies she once sang to him. He says it’s a full-circle kind of love—the child now soothing the mother. The woman who once carried the world on her shoulders now needs the world to hold her.

Doctors say her condition is progressing. The windows of clarity are becoming fewer, the silences longer. But through it all, Shooter refuses to let grief be the only narrative. Instead, he speaks of resilience. Of how Jessi taught him to fight, to create, to feel deeply. Of how every moment, even now, is a gift.

“She may not remember she’s Jessi Colter,” he said, voice cracking. “But I remember. And that’s enough for now.”

Country stars have begun speaking out, too. Willie Nelson dedicated a recent performance to her. Miranda Lambert called her a “living treasure.” And fans across social media are sharing their favorite Jessi songs under the hashtag #RememberJessi—turning her legacy into a living memory, even as hers fades.

As the days grow quieter, and the woman behind the music retreats further into herself, one truth remains: Jessi Colter’s voice may no longer echo in her own mind, but it lives on in ours. In every note, every lyric, every person she touched.

And in the heart of her son, who carries her story like a torch in the dark, she is still very much alive.

The sun had barely started to rise over the Tennessee hills when Shooter Jennings pulled up to the old farmhouse where his mother once wrote songs that moved millions. The porch creaked under his boots as he stepped toward the screen door, guitar in hand, a bouquet of wildflowers tucked under his arm.

Inside, the walls still held the scent of leather, tobacco, and a time when music was their family’s language. Jessi Colter—his mama, the outlaw queen of country—sat quietly in a rocking chair, humming a tune no one could name anymore.

Her eyes met his, cloudy but soft.

“Waylon?” she asked.

Shooter’s breath caught. This was the third time this week.

“No, Mama. It’s me—Shooter,” he said gently, kneeling beside her.

A pause. Then a faint smile.

“You got your daddy’s eyes,” she whispered. “And that wild streak.”

He gave a quiet laugh, brushing a wisp of silver hair from her temple. She wore his father’s old denim jacket—faded, but still holding stories.

Alzheimer’s had come for her slowly, then all at once. At first, she forgot names. Then song lyrics. Then entire years. But music… music still lived somewhere inside her. A language beyond memory.

Some nights, when the moon was full and the radio low, she’d suddenly belt out a verse from “I’m Not Lisa,” her voice cracked but determined. It was like watching a ghost return for one more dance.

Shooter set his guitar down and turned on the old reel-to-reel tape recorder.

“Mama,” he said softly, “Do you remember this one?”

He strummed the opening chords of a song they used to sing together. Her brow furrowed. Then lifted.

“Hoss,” she said, a nickname only she and Waylon ever used for him, “you always played too loud.”

He laughed, blinking away tears. “Guess I still do.”

The reel turned slowly. Jessi tapped her fingers on the armrest in rhythm, mouthing words. Not all of them were right. But they were hers.

Shooter had started recording these moments months ago. Not for the world. Just for himself. Someday, when the stage lights were off and the world was quiet, he’d need proof she was still here. That the fire hadn’t gone out completely.

That day, he played until her eyelids grew heavy. Then he covered her with a quilt stitched from tour shirts and satin.

Outside, reporters waited.

Someone had leaked the news: “Country Legend Battles Alzheimer’s.” Photographers had camped outside the gate all morning. But Shooter said nothing. This wasn’t a PR moment. This was goodbye, written in chords and fading verses.

Later that night, he posted one sentence on social media:

“Today, she called me Waylon. And for a minute, I believed her.”

The post went viral. Fans from across the globe poured in messages: She changed my life. Her voice helped me survive. She was my mama’s favorite singer.

Shooter didn’t respond to most. But he read them all. Each was a reminder: Jessi wasn’t just his mother. She belonged to everyone.

Two weeks later, she didn’t recognize him at all.

She called him “the boy with the guitar.”

But even then, she still sang.

One late evening, as cicadas chirped outside and rain tapped softly against the roof, he walked in to find her at the piano. Her fingers trembled on the keys.

He sat beside her, saying nothing.

After a long silence, she whispered, “Hoss, is that you?”

He nodded, unable to speak.

Then she placed her hand on his and said, “Sing it with me. One more time.”

And so they did. One final duet. One last verse. As if she knew this was the end of the line.

When Jessi passed the next morning, the sun was just rising—same as the day he had returned home.

Shooter didn’t cry right away.

He opened the reel-to-reel, pressed play, and let her voice fill the room like it always had.

The press would call her a legend. The fans would play her records. Nashville would light a candle.

But for him, she was the woman who packed lunches in guitar cases. Who danced barefoot in motel rooms. Who called him Hoss when no one else did.

She was memory. Even when hers had gone.