There is a kind of grief that no one talks about enough — the grief that begins before death. It is called anticipatory grief, and if you are living with it right now, you already know that it is one of the loneliest experiences a person can endure. You are mourning someone who is still here, still breathing, maybe still talking to you, and yet you can feel them slipping away. And you cannot tell anyone how much you are hurting because the world says you are not supposed to grieve someone who is still alive.
But you are grieving. You are grieving every time you notice they have lost more weight. Every time they cannot do something they used to do effortlessly. Every time you catch yourself watching them sleep and wondering how many more times you will get to see this. Every time you mentally rehearse a future without them and then feel guilty for going there. This grief is real. It is not premature. It is not pessimistic. It is your heart responding honestly to what is happening in front of you.
Anticipatory grief often feels like living in two worlds at once. In one world, your person is still here, and you are trying to be present, to savor every moment, to make memories. In the other world, you are already imagining the empty chair, the silent phone, the closet full of clothes that no one will wear again. Moving between these two worlds is disorienting and exhausting. You may feel like you are betraying them by grieving too early, or betraying yourself by hoping too hard.
The guilt can be suffocating. You might feel guilty for crying when they are still in the room. Guilty for researching funeral arrangements while they are still alive. Guilty for feeling relieved on the days they do not seem to be in pain, because relief feels too close to acceptance. Guilty for wanting this to be over, because wanting it to be over means wanting them to die, and that thought is unbearable even though it comes from a place of love and compassion, not cruelty.
Here is what I want you to know: anticipatory grief does not mean you have given up. It does not mean you are not fighting alongside them. It does not mean you love them any less. It means you are a human being who can see what is coming, and your heart is trying to prepare itself for something it will never truly be prepared for. That is not weakness. That is the raw, honest courage of someone who refuses to look away.
If you can, let yourself grieve openly. Talk to a counselor, a support group, or a trusted friend who will not try to talk you out of your feelings. Write in a journal. Cry when you need to. And at the same time, keep showing up for the person you love. Hold their hand. Tell them what they mean to you. Be present in the moments you still have together, even when presence feels like standing in a fire.
You are not doing this wrong. There is no right way to grieve someone you are losing in slow motion. The only wrong thing would be to pretend you are not hurting. Let yourself hurt. Let yourself love. They are not opposites — they are the same thing, seen from different angles.