By Meghan Fitzpatrick, Hospice & Palliative Care Representative
Old Colony Hospice & Palliative Care
Grief is supposed to look a certain way. Heavy. Hollow. Unrelenting. It’s the kind of thing people lower their voices around, the kind of thing we brace ourselves to witness in others. And when it arrives in our own lives, we expect it to follow the same script.
But it doesn’t always.
The other day I was talking with a coworker in an assisted living community. We were standing in that in-between space that so much of this work happens in, not quite clinical, not quite personal, but deeply human. We were talking about a resident who had recently died, someone who had been struggling for a long time. There had been pain. There had been confusion. There had been a slow unraveling that everyone could see but no one could stop.
And somewhere in that conversation, almost in a whisper, we both acknowledged the same thing. There was sadness, of course. But there was also relief.
It felt almost disloyal to say it out loud.
Relief can feel like the wrong emotion in the presence of loss. It can sneak in quietly, catching you off guard. You might feel it in the stillness after the chaos, in the absence of constant worry, in the knowing that someone you love is no longer suffering. And almost immediately, it can be followed by guilt. A sharp, uncomfortable question rises up. What kind of person feels relief when someone dies?
A human one.
When someone we love has been hurting, really hurting, in ways we cannot fix, we carry that with them. We hold our breath through every setback. We brace ourselves for every phone call. We watch the slow erosion of who they were, and it takes something from us, too. Loving someone in that space is not passive. It is active, exhausting, and often heartbreaking.
So when that suffering ends, something in us exhales.
That exhale is not a betrayal. It is not a sign that we loved them any less. If anything, it is evidence of how closely we were tethered to their experience. We were in it with them. We felt the weight of it. And when that weight lifts, even just a little, our bodies and minds respond.
Relief does not cancel out grief. They exist side by side, sometimes in the very same moment. You can miss someone deeply and still feel grateful that their pain has ended. You can wish they were still here and also recognize that their leaving brought a kind of peace that staying could not.
We do ourselves a disservice when we try to edit grief into something more palatable, more acceptable. When we decide that only certain emotions are allowed, we start to question our own humanity. We turn an already painful experience into something even more isolating.
The truth is, grief is expansive. It makes room for contradictions. It allows for complexity. It does not ask you to choose between love and relief, between sorrow and peace.
That small sense of relief you might feel does not need to be pushed away or hidden. It can be acknowledged gently, without judgment. It can sit alongside your sadness without diminishing it. It can simply be part of the story you are living through.
Because when someone you love is no longer suffering, it is OK to feel that shift. It is OK to recognize the quiet that follows. It is OK to exhale.
And it is certainly nothing to feel guilty about.
About the Author: Meghan Fitzpatrick is a business development representatives at Old Colony Hospice & Palliative Care. She has a strong background in assisted living and dementia care. She is also a trained support group facilitator for the Alzheimer’s Association. Her compassion and knowledge make her a vital part of Old Colony Hospice’s outreach efforts. She is a trusted resource in the community, connecting with families, providers, and community partners throughout the region and can be reached at mfitzpatrick@oldcolonyhospice.com.
