I wish I could write more eloquently about the experience of having a terminally ill parent, but the words have always evaded me when I sat down to write about it. There are moments I wish I could capture, some beautiful and some torturous, not only because they are a part of my life, but also because I believe they could help someone else.

I went through a phase last summer after my mother transitioned to hospice care of wanting to understand anticipatory grief, the months and years of illness preceding a loved ones death. I found used books on the topic (we’ll chat some other time about the dark humor of buying used books on grief). All of the stories were tender and beautiful and referred to dying as a “transition.” I couldn’t stomach more than ten or fifteen pages of any one of them before I launched the book across the room into a wall, which often made me feel better than anything I’d read. These were not families to whom I could relate.

The part no one tells you or talks about or writes about is that the entire process is messy. There are highly charged moments of family members hanging up on one another, there are periods of siblings not speaking to one another, there are moments of other people’s insensitivity that make you want to claw your eyes out. There are moments where an entirely family laughs together over a distant memory, where friends reveal themselves as heroes. There is nothing constant or consistent except the complicated nature of being in this state. I jot down lessons I’ve learned on Post-It notes and use them as tangible reminders later when I need them.

Over the past two weeks, I’ve learned what I anticipate will be the most valuable lesson I will take away from this — forgiveness of myself. I left work unexpectedly two weeks ago to be with my mother and family, and had to forgive myself for all of the things left undone during a busy time. I argued with my brother while there, and had to forgive myself for letting the stressful situation make me less of a sister. I pushed friends away who I needed, and had to forgive myself for not being able to tell them what I needed most. After returning home, I had to forgive myself for not being able to stay longer. I’m learning to forgive myself for not always operating at 100% because there are so many things pulling at my time, energy and heart.

I will never have the words to wholly capture this journey. I hope I always have enough words to remind someone else going through this they aren’t alone. And I’ll always have my collection of Post-It note lessons to muse on later.