When I first started my journey into grief support, my heart was drawn toward caregivers — especially those working in long term care. In my own research, I quickly realized that caregivers were the forgotten grievers — the ones who show up every day to care for others but are rarely offered care themselves.
My eyes were fully opened during the COVID-19 pandemic. While managing an assisted living facility, I was in the thick of it, surrounded by loss, exhaustion, and uncertainty. Yet when the dust began to settle, no one reached out to offer our caregivers mental health services or grief support. No one asked how we were coping after so much death, fear, and isolation. We simply moved on — expected to return to “normal,” as if our experiences hadn’t changed us forever.
With my previous experience and training, nothing could have prepared me for what it would be like when my mother-in-law began her decline with dementia. I had seen dementia so many times before in my work, but this time it was personal. This time, it was family.
When the End Nears
My mother-in-law loved the beach and beach music. She’d light up whenever it played, even when words had mostly faded she could hum along. My husband had wanted to take her to the beach one last time, but her body declined too quickly. Instead, we brought the beach to her. We painted her room a soft green, hung beach-themed wall art, and filled the windowsill with seashells. Paper jellyfish hung from the ceiling. We wanted her surrounded by things she loved — little reminders of the joy she brought into our lives.
Something I didn’t realize at the time was how deeply being an empath would affect me during her transition. I was picking up on everyone’s energy — the tension, the sadness, the waiting. The room was crowded with people who loved her, but she couldn’t rest with all that energy swirling around her. The final act of kindness I could offer was to clear her space. I was angry, overwhelmed, and protective. But once the space was quiet — once only those who truly needed to be there remained — everything softened. She finally relaxed, and so did I. I went to bed exhausted from the energy, and when I woke to the sound of my husband’s footsteps, I knew without him telling me that she was gone.
Understanding the Stages of Grief
Elisabeth Kübler-Ross first described the five stages of grief — denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance — originally meant as stages for people with a terminal illness. These stages are not a tidy roadmap, but have been adapted as a way to name the shifting emotions of people experiencing loss. They don’t follow a straight line or come in order, but they help us understand that grief is not one feeling — it’s many.
As I reflected on my experience, I realized these stages could also apply to caregiving.
Denial is often the brain’s first form of protection — the disbelief that something so permanent has really happened.
For me, denial looked like habit. The day after my mother in law died, people came to pick up the hospital bed and other equipment. The room looked so empty without her in it. Yet I still caught myself glancing in to check if she was resting peacefully or if she needed anything. It took time for my mind to catch up to the truth my heart already knew.
Anger is often the stage that feels the loudest — the body’s protest against the unfairness of loss.
I have been angry — before she died, after she died, and even now. Angry at the disease, the circumstances, the exhaustion. All the training in the world couldn’t have prepared me for this kind of anger — the kind that burns beneath the sadness.
Bargaining isn’t always about making deals with God or the universe. Sometimes, it’s the small hope that maybe today will be a good day. Those tiny moments of hope were my way of holding on when everything else was slipping away.
Depression isn’t always deep despair — sometimes it’s the heaviness that lingers when the reality of loss settles in.
The days after her death were filled with silence that felt almost unbearable. I didn’t realize how much her presence filled the house until it was gone. Even the quiet felt loud.
Acceptance doesn’t mean we’re “okay” with the loss — it means we’ve learned to live with it.
Acceptance, for me, is coming to terms with how quickly her decline truly was. Some days are harder than others, but there are moments of peace in knowing her struggle has ended.
These stages aren’t meant to fit grief into a neat package — they’re meant to give us a language for it. Understanding them has helped me name what I feel, and that naming, in its own small way, has brought healing.
The Connection We Carry
As caregivers — whether professional or family — we form connections that don’t fade just because someone has died. We’ve witnessed their most vulnerable moments, held their hands through fear, and learned their rhythms. That connection leaves a lasting imprint. And yet, caregivers are often expected to move on quickly. To go back to work, to tend to others, to keep showing up. We are rarely given the space or support to grieve.
My experience with my mother-in-law — layered with all the unprocessed grief I carried from years of work in long-term care — reminded me why I started this work in the first place. Grief needs to be talked about openly. Caregivers need places to rest, to speak freely, and to be seen in their grief. We cannot pour from an empty cup, and yet that’s exactly what so many of us are expected to do.
Closing Reflection