When Grief Starts Before the Goodbye

I spent August 3rd through 11th in Florida visiting my aunt. She has stage 3b lung cancer — not small cell, which apparently makes a difference. But I’ll be honest, the details didn’t matter as much to me as the feeling I couldn’t shake while I was there: this might be the last time I see her.

No matter how many laughs we had or how many bright moments popped up — like seeing my cousin’s daughter after her first day of second grade — the whole trip felt heavy. Like I was floating in the middle of a long, slow goodbye I hadn’t agreed to yet.

The Couch, the Clouds, and the Crash

When I got home, I didn’t unpack anything but my grief. I sat on the couch and stayed there — zoning out and numbing. For two weeks.

I didn’t blog. I didn’t clean. I barely worked. I thought about writing. I opened up Rank Math. I even started reading a new book on boundaries by Nedra Glover Tawwab. But the momentum to do anything just… wasn’t there.

Honestly, this might be the first full day I’ve done something remotely productive — and even now, I feel like I’m dragging myself through every task like I’m underwater.

When the Grief Piles On

It’s not just my aunt’s diagnosis. This whole year has been one hit after another. I lost a job I had really believed was going to be my retirement plan. I poured everything into it — my energy, my time, my trust — only to have it pulled out from under me.

That grief hasn’t fully settled, and I think it’s been quietly compounding in the background. So when the trip to Florida happened, it wasn’t just one layer of loss I was dealing with. It was all of it. All at once.

Is It Grief? Is It Depression? Is It Just Me?

I don’t know if what I’ve been feeling is grief or depression or just a mental shutdown from the overstimulation of airports, hospitals, emotions, and being away from home. Maybe it’s all of the above. Maybe it’s something else entirely.

All I know is I’ve felt stuck. Disconnected. Like my body is here, but my mind hasn’t landed yet.

And when I try to explain that to anyone — including my wife — I can’t. The words don’t come. I don’t even know what is wrong. Just that something is.

The Medication Gap I Didn’t Notice

A couple of days ago, I finally realized I’d been off one of my regular medications for over a month. I missed a refill — and I didn’t even catch it. That might be part of this fog I’m in. Or it might just be the cherry on top of everything else.

I called my doctor to get back on track, but even that felt like a huge step. Not because I don’t believe in medication — I do — but because I’m tired. I’m tired of all the pills and all the trying. I want to feel better without needing so much help to feel better.

But here we are.

The Things I Don’t Know If I’ll Say Out Loud

There are things I’m still sorting through. Like how my coping mechanisms have shifted in ways I’m not totally proud of. Or how I sometimes wonder if the things I think are helping me are actually making it worse. But that’s probably a blog post for another day.

For now, I’ll just say this: grief doesn’t wait for the moment someone leaves. Sometimes it shows up early, settles in, and makes itself at home while you’re still trying to be hopeful.

And healing from that kind of grief — the kind that lives in the in-between — takes time, patience, and a whole lot of self-compassion.

If You’re in the In-Between Too…

If you’re navigating that weird, gray area between loss and goodbye, or between “I’m fine” and “I’m falling apart,” I see you.

You’re not broken. You’re not lazy. You’re not doing this wrong.

You’re human.
And this is grief before the goodbye.

By: Jess E