My First Year Without Dad: Grief, Healing, and Finding Strength After Loss

June 13th marks one year since my father died. As I reflect on my first year without Dad, I've been thinking about what grief, healing, and love have taught me.

Not the obvious things.

The deeper things.

The things grief teaches you when you're not paying attention.

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When my brother died, I was only thirteen years old.

At the time, I didn't understand everything he did for me.

I remember sitting at the kitchen table long after dinner was over.

My mother wouldn't let me leave the table until I'd finished eating.

Dinner was at six o'clock.

Sometimes I would still be sitting there when my brother came home from the bars after two in the morning.

I'd be asleep in the chair.

My legs numb.

My head was resting on the kitchen table.

He'd wake me gently, pick me up, and carry me to bed.

As a young girl, I thought that was just something brothers did.

It wasn't until years later that I realized what he was really doing.

He was protecting me.

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When Dad died last year, I discovered something similar.

The first thing I noticed wasn't his absence.

It was the disappearance of something I had never even thought about before.

Safety.

My father was my safety net.

I didn't need much from him.

In fact, he raised me to be fiercely independent.

The kind of woman who figures things out.

The kind of woman who handles her own problems.

The kind of woman who pays her debts.

One time, I borrowed $500 from him.

It took me three months to pay him back, but I paid every penny.

Not because he demanded it.

Because that's who he taught me to be.

Independent.

Responsible.

Capable.

And yet, despite all of that, he was always there.

If something went wrong, Dad would come running.

If I needed advice, I called Dad.

If I was scared, overwhelmed, uncertain, or stuck, somewhere in the back of my mind was the quiet knowledge that my father existed in the world.

I recall two times when he picked me up after a bad date. Once, I had no idea where I was, but he found me.

He’d always find me.

And that meant everything.

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The first thing I realized after he died was that I had no one left to call.

Not that there was literally no one.

There were people who loved me.

People I could call.

But we give different pieces of ourselves to different people.

He was my dad.

And no other relationship could ever be that.

When he left this world, he took things that no one else had ever given to me outside of him and my brother.

My safety.

I no longer had a safety net.

No person is standing behind me.

No one is coming to rescue me if everything falls apart.

That realization was one of the scariest moments of my life.

Not because I suddenly became incapable. But because I suddenly understood how much comfort I had drawn from simply knowing he was there.

His presence had been carrying a weight I never noticed while he was alive.

And when he left, I felt every ounce of it.

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This first year without Dad has taught me many things.

But perhaps the most surprising lesson is this:

Sometimes the people who make us feel safest do their work so quietly that we don't realize how protected we've been until they're gone.

All the healing work that I’d done in my life was the answer to a question I didn’t know was coming.

How do I go on without my safety net… without my dad?

I won't sugarcoat it; I was a mess when he passed.

My grief turned into depression.

One of the worst bouts of it that I can remember since losing my brother.

I cleared my calendar. I couldn't see anyone in that condition.

I withdrew.

But for the first time in my life, after a major loss, I didn't numb.

I stayed.

I let myself feel it.

The fear.

The sadness.

The anger.

The loneliness.

It didn’t feel good.

It wasn’t pretty.

But I fully honored myself, possibly for the first time.

In the moment, I listened to my body and quietly,

In my own time,

Gave it what it asked for.

And somewhere inside all of that, I found something unexpected. 

Strength.

Not the kind that pretends everything is okay.

The kind that survives when it isn't.

The kind living in me all along…

I just never listened.

I began to realize that the safety I thought came from Dad was something he had spent a lifetime teaching me to build within myself.

The courage.

The resilience.

The determination to keep going.

Those things didn't leave when he did.

They were already here.

Because he put them there.

Because he lives through me.

And like God, he will never leave me. I know my brother has been with me all these decades. And I believe the same is true for Dad now.

So, when I need to talk to him,

I do.

I know he hears me.

And then I wait.

In stillness.

For his reply.

❤️

It always comes.

Maybe not when I want it.

Maybe not how I expect it.

But always in its own time.

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So today, I'm thinking about my dad.

I'm remembering all the ways he showed up.

All the ways he protected me.

All the ways he loved me.

I'm quietly thanking him for preparing me for the day I would have to walk without him.

If there is someone you're missing today, perhaps take a moment and sit quietly with them.

Tell them what you wish they could hear.

Tell them what happened today.

Tell them you love them.

Then listen.

Not with your ears.

With your heart.

You may be surprised by what comes back.

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If you are interested in where I was a year ago, I wrote Grief & Rainbows while I was "in it" last year. If grief is your current season, this article may give you something you didn't know you needed.

Read Grief & Rainbows