Loving Someone Who’s Disappearing

I didn’t expect my marriage to feel like mourning.

Not like this.

We’re not growing apart.

But I feel like I’m losing him slowly, painfully to something he can’t control.

His health. His body. His mind.

And I don’t know how to hold it all.

Some days, it feels like I’m married to a shadow of who he used to be.

Not by his choice. Not by mine.

But by the cruel timing of illness.

And that grief has no name.

I come from trauma.

The kind that taught me to only trust myself.

So when communication breaks down when silence stretches between us my mind fills in the gaps with fear.

Is he angry?

Is he giving up?

Is this my fault?

It isn’t. I know that.

But knowing doesn’t always mean feeling safe.

And I haven’t felt truly safe in a long time.

People tell me to leave.

They say I don’t deserve to be a full-time caregiver at my age.

That I’m wasting the best years of my life.

That love shouldn’t look like this.

But those people didn’t take the vows with me.

They don’t see the small moments the flickers of who he used to be when he laughs, when he says my name, when he holds my hand like I’m still home.

They don’t understand that love doesn’t disappear just because life gets harder.

I want him back.

The version of him before the illness took so much.

The version of us that wasn’t drowning in doctor visits, exhaustion, or the heavy quiet of survival.

But here’s what I know about myself:

I’m a fighter. I always have been.

And he is someone worth fighting for.

That doesn’t mean I don’t cry in the shower.

It doesn’t mean I don’t question if I can do this for the rest of my life.

It just means I keep showing up.

Even when it hurts.

Even when I don’t know how.

I write this because I don’t have answers.

Only questions, and a heart that hurts.

I’m learning that it’s okay to love someone deeply and still ache for what’s been lost.

It’s okay to be exhausted, to grieve someone who’s still alive, to wish things were different while still choosing to stay.

Or maybe, one day, I’ll choose to go.

I don’t know.

But today, I just needed to say this out loud.

If you’ve ever felt this too, know this:

You’re not selfish for struggling.

You’re not heartless for wanting more.

You’re not weak for holding on.

You’re a fighter too.