What if Mourning Begins in Advance? Anticipatory Grief in Invisible Losses

Have you ever thought that perhaps grief doesn’t wait for the final goodbye? What if it starts quietly, long before the ending – in those moments when we sense that change, loss, or death is coming? Let me introduce you to a term you might know, even if you didn’t know its name: anticipatory grief.

Most of us are taught that grief begins after the loss – after the funeral, after we say goodbye. But anticipatory grief is different. It comes before all that. It’s the ache of mourning what’s still here but already changing. It’s the kind of grief that shows up in the waiting, in the fearing, and in the hoping, all at once.

Read also ‘The Weight You Carry – What if This is Grief‘

What is anticipatory grief?

The term “anticipatory grief” was first used in 1944 by psychiatrist Erich Lindemann, who studied families affected by a devastating Boston fire. He described it as grief in response to the threat of death rather than death itself. Today, we understand it as mourning before the loss fully arrives.

In my Grief Stories series, where grievers from all around the world share their stories, I hear from people who’ve experienced this kind of grief. Caring for a parent with dementia, watching them fade away slowly. Witnessing a child’s addiction alters everything you once dreamed of for their future. Or our own diagnosis, forcing us to grieve the future we thought we’d have.

It’s confusing, isn’t it? Living in two realities at once – grieving the person we were, mourning the future that won’t be, while trying to stay present in what is. It’s exhausting – emotionally, mentally, and physically.

The weight of ambiguous loss

Alongside anticipatory grief often comes ambiguous loss, a term coined by therapist Pauline Boss.

Ambiguous loss happens when someone is physically present but psychologically gone – as with dementia, brain injury, or severe illness – or when someone is physically gone but emotionally still present, like separation or estrangement.

It’s a kind of loss that defies closure. There’s no clear line between what’s been lost and what remains. You’re grieving, yet you can’t move forward because part of your loved one – part of your hope – still lingers.

When ambiguous loss and anticipatory grief meet, it can feel like we’re grieving twice – once for who we were, and again for what’s coming.

Naming my own pain

I know this grief intimately. Since my accident, I’ve lived with both anticipatory grief and ambiguous loss. For years, I moved through exhaustion, anger, confusion, and numbness – without realising what I was feeling was grief.

We live in a grief-illiterate world, so it’s no surprise that so many of us move through grief without even realising that’s what it is. Looking back, I wish someone had simply said to me, “This is grief,” sooner. Not necessarily with labels like anticipatory grief or ambiguous loss – because sometimes labels can feel more confusing than comforting – though it helps to know those terms. What I really needed was a gentle reminder that I wasn’t losing my mind. That what I was feeling was real. That it made sense.

Because when we can name our pain, it stops feeling like chaos and starts to feel like something we can understand – and carry.

Living with the weight of anticipatory grief

Guilt often shows up in anticipatory grief because we’re caught between two forces – love and fear. It’s the ache of holding on while secretly wishing the waiting would end. Maybe you’ve been there, imagining relief once the uncertainty finally lifts – and then feeling guilty for even thinking that.

I’ve been there. After my accident, waiting for my diagnosis, I felt like I was constantly walking a tightrope between hope and fear. I wanted to believe that things would be okay, but after facing setback after setback, I couldn’t help but wonder if they ever really would be. Not knowing was its own kind of pain.

If you’ve felt that too, know this – the tug-of-war inside you isn’t a lack of love. It’s your mind protecting you when life feels impossible to manage. And your body? It feels every ounce of it. The tension in your shoulders, the knot in your stomach, the heavy exhaustion that doesn’t lift – that’s not weakness. That’s your body grieving. It’s your nervous system quietly saying: something precious might be slipping away.

Whether you’re waiting for a diagnosis, sitting beside someone you love, or sensing life is about to shift in ways you can’t yet name – grief is already here. It shows up in the waiting, in the sleepless nights, in the endless questions that have no answer.

When I was waiting for my results, I couldn’t stop searching for explanations. I Googled every symptom (I wouldn’t recommend doing this), trying to make sense of it. I told myself once I knew, once the waiting ended, I’d feel better. But that’s not how it works. Sometimes the waiting stretches on – weeks, months, or even years – and our bodies stay in overdrive. We become alert, anxious, exhausted to the bone, long before the loss even happens.

Read also ‘What Grievers Really Need – How to Support Others and Yourself Through Grief‘

Anticipatory grief in life and body

If you’ve ever lived with chronic pain or mental health struggles, you’ve probably met anticipatory grief, too.

When your body starts to change, it can feel like you’re losing parts of yourself one day at a time. Chronic illness often brings grief that isn’t sudden – it’s slow, relentless. Maybe you used to run every morning or meet friends for lunch without thinking twice. Over time, those small freedoms slip away. It’s hard to mourn what slips away bit by bit.

The same goes for mental health. Sometimes, you grieve the version of yourself who once felt settled or hopeful. You mourn the life you imagined, even though it hasn’t completely disappeared. That fear – that things might never be the same again – is a quiet kind of heartbreak.

If you’ve ever had a beloved pet grow old or sick, you’ve felt this too. You start grieving before they’re gone – while they’re still beside you. You’re mourning the companionship you still have but know you’ll soon lose. It’s layered grief – grieving the present and the future at once. It’s tender, and it’s hard.

Maybe you’ve known anticipatory grief through pregnancy loss – when you’ve had to say goodbye before even saying hello.

If you’ve learned your baby might not survive, grief begins the moment you know. You hold onto hope while already learning to let go. It’s a heavy, lonely kind of grief – the heartbreak of mourning a child you never got to meet, and a future you never got to live.

It’s a paradox – joy and sorrow existing in the same heartbeat. And this grief is hard to carry.

Anticipatory grief can also show up in life’s transitions – selling your home, watching your children leave, changing careers, retiring, or noticing your health decline.

These moments might not be life-or-death, but they still require letting go of something deeply personal. You might grieve the identity tied to your old job, the rhythm of family life, or the energy you once had.

It’s the quiet grief of realising you’re no longer the person you were. Of feeling a shift in who you are – and who you’re becoming.

So, what do we do with this grief?

The therapist Gina Moffa writes that our brains are wired to anticipate loss. When something important feels uncertain, the mind starts rehearsing the pain before it arrives. That’s why you imagine endings that haven’t happened yet. It’s your brain’s way of preparing you.

But when the day finally comes – when the loss is real – it doesn’t make it easier. It doesn’t shrink the pain. If anything, it adds to it. Anticipatory grief doesn’t protect us from hurt; it just means we’re experiencing love and fear at the same time, holding our breath between what is and what’s about to change.

Grief, in all its forms, is love’s shadow. It’s a sign of how deeply we’ve cared – for people, for places, for versions of ourselves that once felt complete. When we grieve before the end, we’re holding on to what still matters, even as it begins to slip away.

There’s no right way through it. Some days, you might feel grounded, even a little grateful. Other days, completely drained. And that’s okay. Both belong. And I’ve found that pacing myself makes the hard days a little more bearable – just like I had to do when managing chronic pain. I learned to give myself the simple rule: do three things a day, no matter how small. Grief works the same way. I let myself move in and out of it, knowing I didn’t have to stay in sorrow all the time.

Try to notice small moments of joy, and connection – a shared laugh, a quiet handhold, a moment of stillness, a deep breath. They won’t take the pain away, but they can anchor you in love, remind you that even in the uncertainty, you’re not alone.

Read also ‘Navigating Grief – What It Is and How It Shapes Our Emotions‘

Grief in the in-between

I’m learning that grief doesn’t always wait for the end. Sometimes, it begins quietly in the middle – in that long, tender stretch between holding on and letting go.

If this is where you find yourself, please know you’re not alone. Anticipatory grief can feel like walking through thick fog – difficult to name, hard to explain, and even harder to live with. But it’s real. And it’s okay to grieve before the loss fully arrives.

Take a breath. You’re not broken or losing your mind. You’re simply human – loving through uncertainty, mourning what’s changing, and honouring what still remains.

That, too, is grief.

Let me walk with you through it. Let me remind you that you’re not weak – you’re grieving.

And the grief you’re feeling before the loss? It’s real. It’s valid. It deserves to be acknowledged.

Thank you for being here.

As always, I’d love to hear your reflections. Have you experienced this kind of grief? What helped you through it?

Till the next blog post,

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