The Loss That Lingers in Silence

'Living losses linger,' a lesson I learned. Read the Grief Story, 'Grieving the Loss of a Living Loved One,' by Kristen Neighbarger about grieving a person who is still breathing...

May 28, 2025

Welcome to the Grief Stories community! I hope you’ll find this to be a welcoming place where you’ll be able to share experiences, get things off your chest, support one another, ask questions, and chat to people who truly ‘get it’. I invite you to read and share stories of hope and healing; giving a voice to loss and grief. This is a safe place helping us to feel less alone on our journey and providing comfort in hard times.

We live in a world that is, in so many ways, grief illiterate - especially when it comes to grief that doesn’t stem from death. Perhaps that’s why I didn’t initially realise that what I was experiencing after a life changing accident was actually grief. It might not have been the type that can easily be named or neatly explained. But it was still grief.

Over the past year, through the Grief Stories series, I’ve had the privilege of holding a space for people to share their hardest truths. I'm so grateful to every single griever who has opened their heart and spoke of their pain aloud. Thanks to them, we’ve been able to shine a light on the many faces of grief - from the loss of a parent or child, to the less quieter, but often more complicated kinds - the living losses.

Lea Turner’s story, “When You Experience Grief Without Closure,” captures this beautifully. She shares a quote, that has stayed with me, which reveals that some of the most painful losses we carry are for people who are still alive.

Some of the most painful losses we carry are for people who are still alive.

And maybe that’s where you find yourself, too. Perhaps a relationship has broken down. Or maybe mental illness, addiction, or dementia has slowly taken someone you love and left a version you hardly recognise. This kind of grief doesn’t always make sense to others and it can feel deeply, unbearably lonely. But just because a loss isn’t final, doesn’t mean it isn’t real.

It’s a strange kind of mourning—grieving someone who is still here, yet no longer present in the way they once were. There’s no funeral. No flowers. No cards in the post. No one says, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” But the loss lives on. It shows up in birthdays not celebrated, in calls not answered, in the ache of remembering who they once were.

There’s no timeline for this kind of grief - there’s no timeline for any type of grief. No map, no script, no clean-cut answers. There’s just your way - one breath, one tear, one small act of self-kindness at a time. My heart goes out to everyone who finds themselves sitting in the silence of such loss, just like Kristen. Today, I’m honoured to share her grief story.

In today’s Grief Stories, Kristen Neighbarger bravely shares her experience of this very kind of grief. Her words are a gentle reminder that missing someone who is still alive doesn’t make you weak - it makes you human. And if you’re walking that quiet path of ambiguous loss, I want you to know that your pain matters. Your grief is valid, and you are not alone. There is space for you here.

Missing someone who is still alive doesn’t make you weak - it makes you human.

I’m deeply grateful to Kristen for sharing her story with such honesty and vulnerability. Her words are a testament to resilience and a source of comfort for anyone grieving a presence that’s no longer here in the way it once was. If her words speak to you, please let us know what you found meaningful in the comments.

‘Grieving the Loss of a Living Loved One’ by Kristen Neighbarger

Grief Story #013

I came back from lunch and plopped down at my desk to finish up my day when I heard my cell phone buzzing from a desk drawer. It was 2009–a time before the iPhone infiltrated my world. I had several missed calls, a voicemail, and a slew of texts from my brother. "That's strange," I thought, as he lives in a different state and isn't in the habit of calling me and texting me often.

I listened to his voicemail first. Instantly, my heart sank. His message was a frantic, panicked plea for me to call him immediately, and something about my parents being in a motorcycle accident. I called him back and listened as he recounted the few details he had from the paramedic on the scene.

My parents were in a hit-and-run accident.
My mom was up and walking around, but was transported to a local hospital.
My dad was unconscious at the scene and was life-flighted to a level-one trauma unit.
The paramedic found a random Emergency Contact card in my mom's wallet, on which my brother had obnoxiously written "Favorite Child" and his number.

Immediately, I jumped into problem-solving mode and started asking my brother questions he had no answers to. We called every level 1 trauma unit in the area around where their accident happened until we found our parents. They were in two different hospitals in a city two hours away from me, and the outlook was bleak for my dad, according to the nurse I talked to in the trauma unit.

I left immediately with the clothes on my back and my printed-out MapQuest directions.

Midway through my drive, I received a call from the hospital where my mom was requesting my permission to perform brain surgery. Immediately, I called my aunt, who gave me updated directions to the hospital where my mom was, and headed there. I couldn't even wrap my head around everything that was happening as I sped to the hospital in an attempt to see my mom before they took her to surgery, while praying my dad was going to be okay for a little while longer without me.

I sat in the hall of the surgery waiting room into the wee hours of the morning and prayed and prayed and prayed until I didn't have any words.

What do you pray for when your mom is fighting for her life through a second brain surgery in one day?

My mind went down every rabbit hole it could find:

What would we do if she died?
Had I called everyone who needed to know what was happening?
How could I live without my mom?
What would happen to my dad?
How could Kate grow up without her grandma?
Who did I need to call at her school?
What would happen to our family without my mom holding us together?
Why was this happening?
What do I do now?

After the surgery, the neurosurgeon came out to talk to me. I was exhausted, and his accent was heavy. Despite both details, I knew the outlook wasn't promising, and if she did make it, her recovery was going to be grueling.

Acceptance, Grief, and Healing

For the next 6 months, my mom was jostled around to various rehabilitation facilities focused on therapy for patients with Traumatic Brain Injuries (TBI). Looking back, it feels like a complete whirlwind of balancing visits to different hospitals, organizing babysitters for my daughter, managing my own life, trying to manage my parents' lives, and figuring out how to be a caretaker.

Finally, the week of Thanksgiving, she came home. While she looked completely healthy from the outside, her language and cognition still suffered immensely. Along with those struggles came the frustration of not being understood or understanding others. That frustration turned my mom into a different person when she was interacting with me and my dad. We've all heard how we're the hardest on the people who are closest to us, and that was most definitely the case for us.

The first twelve years after the accident were a giant roller coaster for all of us–never knowing what would set my mom off, what we do that would make her belligerent, or how our actions might be misunderstood. In the last few years, something has shifted in her, thankfully. She isn't as mean, doesn't get as frustrated, and is more at peace. Because she doesn't understand language well, it's impossible to reason with her, and she hates it when we explain things repeatedly. Consequently, even now, it feels like we're on a tightrope trying to keep our balance as we walk over Niagara Falls.

As we struggled through her recovery, I hated the looks of pity and well-meaning comments that started with "Well, at least..." I've learned over the years that any statement that begins with "At least" should probably not be finished! As I struggled to process all these feelings, I started to understand that what I was feeling was grief.

I was grieving the loss of my mom, even though she was sitting across from me at the table.

It took me years to reconcile this and even longer to be able to say it out loud to my closest friends. I was so afraid people would judge me and look down their noses at me for not appreciating that my mom had lived and was thriving despite her injuries.

Finally, though, I understood that to begin healing, I had to acknowledge what I had lost, and what I had lost was the mom I had known and loved for the first 30 years of my life. It wasn't that this new mom and this new relationship weren't good, important, and worthy. It was that the old relationship, the one I knew and cherished, was dead.

And, I had to grieve that.

Once I accepted that reality and began to understand grief, I was able to view and appreciate this new relationship for what it is–a miracle.

Grieving the loss of a living person isn't something I'd ever heard anyone talk about. It feels a little taboo to say it and admit it, even. Unfortunately, though, for some of us, it is our reality–likely a reality we never would have chosen.

If you find yourself in that reality today, know I see you. I understand the complex emotions you are experiencing, and I pray that you, too, find your way toward healing.

Grief Story by Kristen Neighbarger

Friend, are you missing someone who is still alive? What does that kind of grief feel like for you? Have you found community or connection with those who understand? How do you honour the love or connection that still exists, even in absence? Share in the comments.

Grief Stories by Katy Parker from Journeyofsmiley

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