Working through the grief no one talks about
We talk about the grief of losing someone you love.
We send flowers, we make casseroles, we gather in living rooms and at gravesides to share stories and hold hands.
But there’s another grief—one that doesn’t get casseroles.
The grief of after caregiving.
It’s the quiet that comes after years of constant doing—measuring medications, tracking symptoms, advocating through doctor’s and lawyer’s appointments, managing every aspect of daily life and the end to come… holding hope in one hand and dread in the other.
When you’ve been in it for so long, caregiving becomes its own ecosystem. Your days are built around someone else’s needs, and your body runs on adrenaline and duty. You become an expert in things you never wanted to learn.
And then one day, it ends.
Yes, there is the loss of the person. But there is also the loss of the life you had with them—the purpose, the identity, the way you were needed.
You wake up and realize:
Your body is wrecked from years of lifting, bending, poor sleep, skipped meals.
Your mind is exhausted from the vigilance of never truly being “off duty.”
Your résumé has a gap the size of a canyon, and employers don’t always see the skills you gained in the trenches.
The version of you before caregiving feels like a stranger.
And the world?
The world moves on quickly.
The people who checked in every week now text occasionally, if at all.
The support systems fade.
You’re expected to “get back to normal” when you know in your bones there is no normal to go back to.
When You Don’t Get Time to Heal
To make matters harder, many of us don’t even have the luxury of moving through this grief slowly.
Bills don’t stop coming. Housing situations change. Relationships may falter or end. Family dynamics shift. Sometimes we have to relocate. Sometimes we have to find a job immediately, ready or not.
It’s like stepping off a rollercoaster and being told to run a marathon—no recovery period, no chance to catch your breath.
This forced rushing can deepen the exhaustion and prolong the healing process. We’re navigating job applications while still barely sleeping through the night. We’re signing leases in cities that don’t yet feel like home while still searching for a piece of ourselves.
Showing Up for Work While Grieving
And then there’s the challenge of trying to show up for work—or for your own business—while carrying this invisible weight.
You’re expected to smile in meetings, meet deadlines, brainstorm ideas, and network with ease…all while your body aches with fatigue and your heart aches with absence.
You might feel like you’re wearing a mask: functioning on the outside while unraveling inside. The grief doesn’t clock out when your workday begins—it sits quietly in the background, tugging at your energy, fogging your focus, making “simple” tasks feel monumental.
If you’re building a business, the pressure doubles. You’re told to “be consistent,” “show up online,” “sell with confidence.” But grief reshapes consistency. It forces you to create a new rhythm that honors both your healing and your ambition.
This is where compassion—especially self-compassion—becomes the most important business strategy of all.
A Different Kind of Grief
This grief is messy. It’s not just missing the person—it’s mourning the identity you had, the community that surrounded you, the rhythm of a life that no longer exists.
If you’re in this place, I want you to know you are not invisible.
The skills you built—resilience, organization, advocacy, empathy—are real. They are valuable. And though it may feel impossible right now, there is a new chapter ahead. One you get to write for yourself.
It will take time. It will take rest. It will take forgiving yourself for not “bouncing back” faster.
You are allowed to honor this in-between. You are allowed to grieve it all.
And maybe the first step isn’t figuring out who you’re supposed to be next.
Maybe it’s simply letting yourself be—without a role, without a title, without the weight of constant responsibility—until the pieces start to find each other again.
From one caregiver to another: I see you. I honor the work you’ve done. And I believe in the life that’s still waiting for you.
Journal Prompt
If you are in the space after caregiving, take a few moments to reflect:
What do I miss most about the life I had during caregiving—beyond the person themselves?
What parts of myself feel missing right now?
What skills, strengths, or qualities did I develop in caregiving that could serve me in this next chapter?
How might I show up for my work or business with honesty about where I am, instead of pretending I’m “over it”?
If I could give myself permission to rest, even for a day, what would that look like?
Write freely. No editing. No “shoulds.” Let this be a space for your truth to land.