Grieving A Parent Who’s Still Alive

One practice that helps when there’s no clear ending.

Photo by Rad Cyrus on Unsplash

I was taught grief follows death. There’s a moment. A phone call. A hospital room. A funeral.

Then an after.

But I've realised many of us are grieving someone who's still alive.

• A parent with dementia who recognises your face but not your history.

• A Mum who survived illness but never quite returned to herself.

• A Dad who’s physically present but emotionally unreachable.

• An estranged parent who still occupies far too much mental space.

There’s no clean ending here. You can’t point to a single day and say, “That’s when it changed.”

Or if you can, the change doesn't come with a formal ending we all understand.

Why this kind of grief lingers

I’ve grieved versions of Mum, who's still very much alive. And the hardest part isn't the sadness.

It's the inner conflict.

Sadness finds its level after time. But the situation never quite makes sense so there's a tug-of-war about how things “should” be versus how they “are.”

The constant questioning:

• How can I be grieving if they’re still here?

• Why do I feel like I’ve already lost them?

• Why does every interaction leave me slightly braced?

It's the kind of grief that destabilises because there isn't a real signal. No clear before or after.

It's why no one brings food or cards. No one checks in on the anniversary of a personality or relationship shift. No one marks the day you realised the relationship you hoped for isn’t coming.

My epiphany came in the middle of a therapy session. Tying myself up in knots for being the fixer but still disappointing to Mum, until the therapist said “It might be time to accept your Mum can't be the Mum you want.”

I was floored. “Can't be…the Mum I want.“ Hmmm, how had I never seen it that way before?

I finally had permission to be sad. To realise this was like fitting a square peg in a round hole, and likely always would be.

But it doesn't wrap things up in a nice bow, no matter how much we want that. Trying to explain why you're pulling away when they won't accept your version of reality.

Explaining to mates why you're not going to afternoon tea for Mother's Day because you don't want an argument.

Or trying to stay compassionate when you're exhausted with all their health issues, bad turns, or tough decisions when you're just over it right now.

So you retreat. You carry it quietly. You beat yourself up.

You decide whether you're ready for your next choice and what it means. Bracing yourself because you don't know how it'll go.

You feel relief on some days. Anger on others. Guilt for both.

You have the veneer of a functioning adult, having breakfast, showing up for meetings, managing logistics. Trying to muster energy to move or exercise.

But underneath, it always feels unresolved.

Unsatisfactory. Like an itch you can't scratch no matter how hard you try.

There’s a term for this: anticipatory grief. Or ambiguous loss.

Knowing that helped me realise it’s not just me. Not just in my head.

But labels aren’t the main thing.

The main thing is this:

Your mind doesn’t get a clean “after.”

So it keeps trying to update the relationship in real time, finding solutions, trying to find some meaning or sense to it.

Circling if I do this then that might happen.

There are thousands of possibilities which is why it's so exhausting.

But if you're unsure what you're really grieving, your brain keeps looking for answers in the wrong places.

Name the real loss

When there’s no clear ending, the grief becomes vague. And vague grief lingers like a bad smell.

Even though the penny dropped for me with my therapist, the real loss didn't become clear until later.

Until I started seeing it as loss and something to grieve. And I realised I was grieving the parental role Mum could never be for me.

Not for any nefarious reason in this case. Just the inability to be who the other person needs them to be.

And that I don't have to rise to it. I know she's not going to be who I wished she was. I can let the sadness and disappointment flow for that loss.

Recognise when the yearning for what others have kicks in. The jealousy. The “I wish I had that…” thoughts.

Which is why a practice that helps is deceptively simple.

Name the real loss.

Not the headline version. Not what you think it might be. Or how your mate or partner might describe it.

Not “I’m upset about Mum and how we argue.”

Get real specific.

Mine is “I’m grieving the Mum I needed but didn’t have. And might never have.”

Yours might be:

• “I’m grieving the version of Dad before dementia.”

• “I’m grieving the fantasy that one day we’d finally feel close.”

• “I’m grieving the idea that she would protect me.”

• “I’m grieving the hope that he would change.”

Or some other version of this. That level of precision feels brutal. Maybe disloyal. Because we don't really like airing our dirty family laundry.

It feels so vulnerable to admit, even to ourselves, so silence is safety.

Plus we get influenced by external judgement, because when someone is still alive, it feels wrong to grieve them.

Especially if they’ve suffered or are still suffering. Or others say, “At least they’re still here, or they are your parent, you should have some respect.”

But what you’re grieving isn’t their heartbeat.

You’re grieving a role. A version. A future that quietly dissolved whilst you were looking the other way.

Clarity reduces internal conflict

When the loss stays vague, the mind and body keep searching for something that makes sense.

• Maybe it will get better.

• Maybe I’m being dramatic.

• Maybe I expect too much.

• Maybe I should just be grateful.

You switch between hope and resentment. Between trying harder and pulling away.

But we get clarity when we name the actual loss.

That doesn't make it less painful. Lord no. It might intensify it because we've put a fricking laser beam on it.

But if the real grief is, “I never felt emotionally safe with her,” then you stop waiting for her to suddenly become safe.

If the real grief is, “He will never be the Dad I imagined,” then you stop measuring every interaction against a fantasy version of him.

This isn’t about blame. And it isn’t about cutting people off, necessarily.

It’s about accurate assessment with data that's true for you. And the right information helps us make more helpful decisions.

Acceptance here isn’t approval. It’s recognising what is, rather than what you hoped would be.

There’s a strange relief in that.

When I stopped trying to extract water from a dry well, I had more energy and appreciation for relationships that could nourish me.

To lean into my friendships with mates who accept me for who I am.

That doesn't make me cold. It makes me clear and discerning.

That clarity is kinder than endless hope that keeps pain stuck.

You don’t need a death certificate to grieve

You might have a single grief statement or many. With grief, we're not necessarily grieving just one loss.

So list as many as feel right. If you’re navigating a parent who is fading, changing, distant, or estranged, try this:

Finish the sentence.

“I’m grieving…”

And don’t edit yourself to make it sound generous or socially acceptable.

Write the raw version. Because no one has to see this except you. And if you aren't being honest with yourself, who are you being honest with?

Grief isn’t always about death or bereavement. It’s the loss of the relationship you quietly let go of, or need to.

And you don’t need a funeral to call it grief. You're still processing and adapting to loss, even if you don't realise it.

Sometimes the most stabilising thing you can do is name exactly what you’ve lost.

Not the person. But the version of them you needed them to be. Or the version of you that no longer exists.

It gives your grief your something to hang onto. And it's when you stop waiting for a phone call that'll never come.

So get specific and start building the life that's actually here.

PS. If you’re carrying anticipatory loss or complicated living-parent dynamics, my self-guided course, Navigating Grief with Compassion helps you unpack the loss you're reeling from and find steadiness at your own pace. Learn more and enrol here.