People talk a lot about death, in theory.

They talk about “making peace,” about “being there at the end,” about “saying goodbye.”
They talk about hospice and comfort and closure.

But what they don’t talk about is the terrible, exhausting, holy place that caregivers live in when someone is dying.
Especially when that someone is someone you love.

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The Moment They Know

Each person I’ve cared for has had a moment when they realized, fully, that they were dying.

That moment changes the air in the room.

Sometimes it’s a whispered question:

“Am I going to get better?”

Sometimes it’s silence — the kind that curls inward and takes all the light with it.

And every time, that realization is followed by grief.
Not just mine. Theirs.

They grieve unfinished things.
Unspoken apologies.
Unwritten letters.
Rooms they meant to clean.
Relationships they hoped to repair.

And I was the one sitting next to them, trying to hold that grief, theirs and mine, while also remembering when to give the meds, how to prop the pillows, and how to stay awake through another night.

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The Caregiver’s Burden (and Grace)

No one tells you that dying is not graceful.
It’s messy. And it’s lonely. It’s volatile.

You do everything you can to provide dignity:

• Keeping them clean
• Keeping them hydrated
• Brushing their hair
• Reassuring them they are still seen

And inside, you’re breaking.

You’re grieving the loss before it happens.
And when the end does come, finally, quietly, or painfully slow, you are left standing in the wreckage of that effort.

You gave everything you had to ease their pain.
And now, there’s no one left to notice yours.

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Grieving While Still Needed

What no one tells you about watching someone die is that you don’t get to fall apart.
Not right away.

You’re managing visitors.
You’re answering calls.
You’re guarding the room from people who just want to know what they’ll inherit.
You’re trying to protect the peace of the person who’s leaving, even if no one is protecting yours.

You are the bridge between the living and the dying.
You are the quiet witness.
You are the anchor.

And it costs something.

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If You’re In It Right Now

If you’re watching someone you love fade away and wondering if you’re doing enough;
You are.

If you’re grieving them before they’re gone;
That’s normal.

If you’re angry, tired, or numb;
That’s not failure. That’s love in its most human form.

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Why I Wrote This

I wrote this for the caregivers, the daughters, sons, partners, friends, who are holding someone’s hand as they let go.

I wrote this for the ones who cry in the shower because it’s the only place they can grieve quietly and without impact.

I wrote this for myself, too.

Because when I was in that terrible space, I didn’t know where to put it all.

So now, I put it here.