Living in the Unknown: On Anticipatory Grief

When my mom was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, I didn’t think of it as grief.

We were focused on treatment plans, second opinions, scan results. We were focused on hope. And we still are.

But somewhere along the way, I realized there’s a quiet emotional weight that comes with loving someone through uncertainty. I later learned there’s a name for it: anticipatory grief.

It’s not grief in the traditional sense. It’s not about giving up hope. It’s about living in the in-between — holding deep belief in healing while also feeling the tremor of “what if.” It’s loving someone so fiercely that the unknown feels heavy.

Every appointment carries possibility. Every scan brings both relief and questions. You learn a new rhythm — waiting, watching, listening carefully to tone shifts and medical language. You celebrate good numbers. You brace for unclear ones. You try not to read too much into anything.

And through all of it, you feel like you have to be strong.

Strong for her. Strong for the family. Strong in the room. There are moments I swallow my own fear because I don’t want her to carry it. I want her to feel steadiness. Confidence. Light.

But anticipatory grief doesn’t mean you lack hope. It means you are human. It means you understand how precious this moment is.

There are ordinary moments that feel heightened now — a shared laugh in the kitchen, a quiet conversation after an appointment, my children wrapping their arms around her for their daily hugs. I notice more. I linger longer. I say what matters.

This season has deepened my understanding of why spaces for reflection matter so much. Whether someone is grieving a loss or navigating uncertainty, we all need places where we can speak freely — to the people we love, to ourselves, to the quiet. We need permission to hold complicated emotions without explaining them away.

That is, in many ways, why The Little Wind Phone Project exists.

Because sometimes what we need most is a place to say the things we don’t say out loud. A place to admit, “I’m hopeful… and I’m scared.” A place to sit with love in its most vulnerable form.

If you are walking through anticipatory grief right now, please know: it’s okay to feel steady and shaken at the same time. It’s okay to carry hope while acknowledging uncertainty.

The unknown is heavy.

But love — spoken, remembered, expressed — helps carry it.