I almost called my dad the other day. I was in the car, heading to jujijitsu with the kids and I had a fleeting thought, “I haven’t talked to my dad in a while, let’s call him!” And then I realized what a weird thought that was because “a while” is actually 3.5 years and… he’s no longer with us.
When they tell you you’ll experience the 5 stages of grief they don’t tell you that it’s not linear and it actually continues on forever. You’ll experience shock, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance for years. It doesn’t mean anything is wrong with you and it doesn’t mean you’re not okay, it simply means a piece of you died with them. You laugh again. You find meaning in death. You heal. But sometimes you cry on Halloween because he doesn’t get to see your kids in their costumes. Sometimes you cry on his birthday when your husband looks over and says, “hey, happy birthday to your dad today… did you remember?” (Of course I remembered, this day has been looming over me all month but I found it very sweet that HE remembered). Sometimes you cry in the car when you want to call and tell them something so bad but you can’t. Sometimes you simply cry because life goes on anyway and you just wish you could share a little bit more of it with them. And then there’s the times where other people get sick and you think, “At least it was fast, I wouldn’t want them to have suffered.” Sometimes you justify it with, “he wouldn’t have liked or enjoyed getting old.” Sometimes you say or think whatever you can, not because it’s true, but because it makes you feel a tiny bit better.
And sometimes, their death totally transforms your life. It makes you realize how fragile life is. How quickly it can all change in an instant. People talk about that you know? How life is short. How you’re never guaranteed tomorrow. But you’ve LIVED it, and that really changes you. Sometimes for the worst- bogged down with anxiety, but sometimes for the best- you change the way you live, you improve your thoughts, your life and you become ultra intentional about the time you do have (however much that is).
Years down the road you’ll be able to look someone in the eye with tears in yours and say you’re okay. And it will be the truth. Because part of being okay is accepting that a huge, important part of you is missing. And that’s sad, yes, it always will be, but despite it all, you are o k a y 🫶🏼. And perhaps that’s one of the hardest and most confusing parts of it- you’re better than ever, living out your dream life, becoming who you were always meant to be and at the same time it feels a little sad because a weird thought crosses your mind, “would I be where I am today had I not experienced the loss?”. Moot point because we’ll never know.
A year after my dad’s passing, I grabbed a gratitude journal with the intent of “getting back to living”. Did I truly think it was going to help me? No. But I thought, “eh, can’t hurt!” And there began my journey to healing. To finding myself. To discovering my insecurities and addressing them. To decreasing my anxieties and increasing my ability to LIVE. To lifting the fog of grief and becoming the mom my kids needed to be. It changed my life so far beyond the realms of grief and I’m forever grateful I decided, “eh, can’t hurt!
Happy birthday, dad. I’m okay. We’re okay. Honestly, we’re more than okay. And if you could see down here, you’d find us thriving. But we miss you. We miss you every single day.