I’ve spent a lifetime wearing uniforms — first in the military, then in business — but no uniform could have prepared me for the one I wear now: caregiver.

My wife is still here. She still smiles. Still laughs. Still says “I love you” with the same strength that got her through childbirth without a scream and once drove a screwdriver bit through her hand with nothing more than a calm “ouch.” But even with all that strength, I know what’s coming. And somewhere along the way, I realized I was already grieving.

It wasn’t denial that kept me from seeing it; I saw every scan, every new medication, every tear. It wasn’t anger that overwhelmed me, though I’ve certainly felt flashes of frustration — at broken systems, unanswered prayers, and my own helplessness. It was something quieter. Slower. A gradual ache of knowing that the woman I love is slipping away in pieces.

That’s what anticipatory grief is — mourning someone while they’re still alive. It’s showing up with love and purpose even as the shadows grow longer. It’s grieving not just the final goodbye, but the thousands of little ones along the way: the goodbye to traveling together, to her independence, to her baking and cooking in the kitchen.

I’ve come to understand that the five stages of grief — denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance — aren’t a straight road. They’re more like a roundabout we circle again and again. And while Kübler-Ross introduced them to describe how patients face terminal illness, caregivers like me feel them too — just in advance.

Right now, I live somewhere between acceptance and heartbreak. I’ve accepted what’s coming. But each day, I still fight to create joy, dignity, and presence. We watch movies in the car so she doesn’t have to get out. We eat takeout in the bed because she cant sit at the table. I hold her hand not just in sickness, but in the holy weight of being here — now.

If you’re walking this road too, know that grief doesn’t wait for death. And love doesn’t wait for perfection. You are doing holy work, even when your hands feel empty.

Let yourself grieve. But also — let yourself love, fiercely, while there’s still time.