There are some kinds of grief that do not arrive in one devastating moment. Some grief comes slowly—quietly—over months and years. It comes in phone calls. In medical updates. In symptoms that worsen. In “this might be the end” moments that somehow… are not.
I never knew this kind of grief existed until I started living it. It has a name: anticipatory grief. And it has been one of the most painful, confusing, isolating experiences of my life.
And it is also the reason I am taking a break from travel right now. Travel has always been my greatest joy. My reset button. My way of returning to myself. My way of breathing again when life feels heavy. But this season of life is different. Right now, I need to keep my feet on the ground. I need to stay close. I need to be here.
Because the truth is: when someone you love fiercely is slowly slipping away, you do not want to be far from home. You do not want to be unreachable. You do not want to miss moments you can never get back. So, this not ‘goodbye’ to travel. It is simply a pause. A sacred one. A heartbreaking one. A necessary one.
My Father Ralph: A Generosity That Never Turned Off
Before I tell you the hard parts, it is important to me that you know who my father is. My Dad’s name is Ralph. And if you have ever met him, you would understand this immediately: Ralph is the most generous person you will ever meet. Not the kind of generous that makes a show of it. The quiet kind. The real kind. The kind that does not disappear when life gets hard.
Even now, while he is in hospice—my father somehow still found it in his heart to raise $50,000 for workers’ bonuses for Christmas.
Please read that again.
While facing his own suffering, he was still thinking about other people. That is who my Dad is. And that is one of the things that makes this loss feel so impossible: How can someone so good, so giving, so full of love, be asked to endure so much?
How Ralph Ended Up In Hospice
My father’s decline did not begin with one clear moment. It began with something that sounded clinical and manageable on paper, but became devastating in reality: spinal stenosis.
Spinal stenosis is a narrowing of spaces in the spine. In severe cases, it compresses the spinal cord and causes progressive nerve damage. In my father’s case, it left him paralyzed from the neck down.
It is hard to express what it feels like to witness this. Watching someone you love lose their mobility, their independence, their comfort — and then slowly lose even more.
Eventually, my family made the decision that he needed hospice care. And hospice… hospice is complicated. People think hospice means the end will come quickly. Sometimes it does. But sometimes hospice becomes a long road where the person you love is still alive, but not truly living. And the people who love them are trapped in a permanent state of excruciating waiting.
The Slow Death No One Warns You About
Sometimes death does not come swiftly. Sometimes it comes slowly. And when it does, it can feel like the grieving starts long before the goodbye. This is the part that people do not talk about enough: the slow loss.
The kind where:
- you witness suffering you cannot fix
- you receive constant updates with no resolution
- you live in dread of “the call”
- you cling to hope even when you are exhausted
- you keep showing up when you are running on empty
It is a rollercoaster that never lets you off. One day you are convinced his end is near. The next day he seems stable. Then comes another crisis. Then another rally. Then more pain. And somehow, you keep going, because you have no choice.
What Anticipatory Grief Actually Feels Like
Anticipatory grief is not just sadness.
It is:
- anxiety
- dread
- exhaustion
- guilt
- anger
- denial
- numbness
- heartbreak
It is mourning someone who is still here.
It is grief that arrives in pieces:
- the loss of their independence
- the loss of their strength
- the loss of who they used to be
- the loss of your own sense of safety in the world
And it can make you feel like you are living in two realities at once:
- one where you still have your dad
- one where you are already losing him
The Loneliness Of This Kind Of Grief
This grief is lonely. Not because people do not care, but because most people do not understand it unless they have lived it. They do not understand why you are not “better.” They do not understand why you are emotional one day and numb the next. They do not understand why you are grieving when he is still alive.
And sometimes… you do not even know how to explain it. You just carry it.
As I navigate the slow loss of my father, I am learning something I never expected: anticipatory grief does not just break your heart — it also reveals the depth of it. It shows you how fiercely you can love, even when you are exhausted. How you can keep showing up, even when you are scared. How you can carry the weight of goodbye, while still honoring the person who made your life brighter simply by existing. My Dad’s generosity has always been his signature — and even now, in hospice, he continues to give love to the world, like raising $50,000 for workers’ bonuses when most people would have every reason to withdraw. That is Ralph. That is his legacy. And as hard as this slow goodbye is, I want to say this clearly: he will not be remembered only for how he suffered. He will be remembered for how he lived — with a love that never stopped reaching outward. And if you are living this kind of grief too, please hear me: you are not alone. You are doing something impossibly hard. And every time you keep loving through the pain, you are already honoring them in the most sacred way.
And to those of you wondering when my travel stories will return. They will. One day. When my heart can carry them again. But for now… this is where my beautiful adventure is. Here, with him.
