Silent Tears – The Quiet Grief After Losing A Parent

Silent tears, who knew that was a thing! I didn’t even realise I was crying.

I’d be cooking, tidying, reading a book, half watching telly. Just everyday things. Then my cheek would be wet. A single tear. I wasn’t even aware of it happening. That’s how quiet grief after losing a parent works, it catches you while you’re just trying to get through the day.

After caregiving ends, grief doesn’t disappear especially after losing a parent to dementia.

I thought the worst of it had passed. I’d started working and I’d picked up the practical pieces. Buth this emptiness lingers, this dull ache and deep sadness within that keeps following me.

That’s how it comes now.

I thought I was moving on, thought I was getting better. And in some ways, maybe I am. I show up. I get through the day. But the tears remind me that I’m still deep in it. Still grieving.

Related: What No One Tells You About Grieving A Parent With Dementia

It’s just this weight sitting in the background. Always there. Always heavy. My body just manifests it into tears without me even feeling it.

I keep going to Mum’s grave. I don’t stay long. It takes me longer to drive there than the time I actually spend standing beside her. I talk to her a little. Say what I need to say in my head, sometimes out loud. Then I go. I don’t know if it’s helping or if it’s just something I feel I have to do. But I do it to feel closer to her again.

It also brings me guilt. Because I know she would be frustrated seeing me like this. Sad all the time. Not fully myself. Mum would have wanted me to keep living. To carry on. And I am. But not quite the way I used to.

I feel like a part of me is missing.

Not in a poetic sense. Just in the real, dragging-through-the-day kind of way. I feel dull. Flat. Tired in a way that no amount of sleep fixes.

I miss who I was when she was here.

I wanted to move forward. I hoped by now things would be changing. In some areas, maybe they are. But underneath it all, I still feel tethered to Mum. I don’t know how to carry on fully when she’s not here. Every day, there’s something that reminds me. Every day, I remember something to feel bad about.

I’ve had moments where I’ve laughed. Moments where I’ve genuinely felt alright. But then that tear falls without warning and I realise I’m not alright. Not yet. Not fully.

Sometimes I get angry at it. At the grief. At the fact that this is still happening.

I want it to stop. I want to feel happy again. I don’t want this pain anymore!

I want to wake up and not feel this pressure behind my eyes or this weight on my chest. I want to remember Mum and smile without the sadness.

But I can’t lie to myself. I’m not there yet.

What I feel most of the time is emptiness. Not complete blankness. Just a dull absence of energy, of spark. I can fake it when I need to.

But when I’m alone, I feel it fully. The ache. The sadness. The guilt. The exhaustion.

It sits with me while I fold laundry, while I eat dinner, while I scroll through my phone. It’s always there, just behind everything.

I don’t think there’s a fix for it. People say grief gets easier with time. I believe them, I do. But it’s hard to imagine that from where I’m sitting.

And I hate it!!!!!!

As simple as that. I hate how much space it takes up in my mind. I hate how little energy I have for anything else. It feels like grief is the first thing I wake up with, the last thing I feel before I fall asleep and even wakes me at night as I dream.

There are moments, though. Moments of quiet. I hold onto those. I try to trust that they will come more often. That they will last longer.

I know Mum wouldn’t want me to be stuck here. I know she’d tell me to look after myself, to carry on, to find moments of joy again. And I want that too. I want to feel like myself again. I want to rebuild, even if it’s slow.

But it’s not easy. None of this is easy. And truly hate feeling this way!

This grief is quiet. It just lingers. It turns up when I least expect it and stays longer than I’d like. Even at work, I find tears on my face without even realising.

I don’t want to forget her. Never that.

But I do want to forget this part of it. The pain. The weight. The heavy sadness.

And maybe one day I will. Maybe one day I’ll visit her grave and smile without the sadness. Maybe I’ll think of her and feel something lighter. Maybe the memories won’t carry so much ache.

But for now, this is where I am. Somewhere between doing and feeling, between functioning and quietly falling apart. I know I’m not alone in this. I know there are others living with this same ache, carrying their own version of it. Quiet grief after losing a parent is just always there.

And it shows itself when I’m wiping away silent tears when no one’s looking.