Four and a half years ago, my world shifted forever when I lost my brother in a way that shattered my heart and changed the shape of my life. I have been learning, sometimes stumbling, through the daily work of living alongside grief.
And then, this year, grief returned.
My stepfather, someone who had been part of our family for so many years, has been in hospice care at home. Today, I said goodbye to him for the last time. While his body is still here, it is only a shell of who he once was. He has wasted away to barely 80 pounds. He no longer speaks or sees, and no longer moves with intention. Watching him fade like this is almost unbearable.
This kind of grief, anticipatory grief, is its own painful, complex experience. You’re preparing for the loss while it is still unfolding in front of you. You try to make sense of the slow goodbye while your heart is already breaking. You hold their hand and feel their absence creeping in, even as they breathe beside you.
To witness someone you love slowly dying is something you never forget. And to witness your mother, my mother, enduring this again… it guts me. Her heartbreak is visible. Heavy. And so familiar.
Because even in this moment, I feel my brother’s presence.
And his absence.
My stepfather’s decline is stirring the pain of my brother’s death all over again. The losses don’t exist in separate compartments. They blend, collide, resurface, and deepen each other. Every moment spent arranging end-of-life details, especially in the same funeral home where we planned my brother’s services, brings it all rushing back.
It feels like I am grieving both of them at once.
There is no way to soften this: grief is heavy. It doesn’t ask for permission or wait for a convenient time. It arrives in waves, sometimes crashing over moments that are already too tender to bear.
And still, I find myself praying.
That my stepfather will find peace.
That my brother will welcome him.
That somehow, they will meet again in a place where there is no pain, no suffering.
Loss is never easy. But somehow, this grief feels heavier. Maybe because it stacks upon all that has come before. Maybe because anticipatory grief gives you just enough time to watch someone slip away, and not nearly enough time to prepare for the ache of their absence.
If you’re grieving while still grieving, please hear this:
You are not alone.
You are not weak for feeling like this is too much.
You are doing the impossible, loving through pain, showing up through sorrow, and remembering while letting go.
Grief may stretch the limits of our hearts, but it also reminds us just how deeply we have loved. And love, even in loss, is never wasted.