Grief is Tricky

Grief is tricky. It pops up at the most random times. It doesn't speak; it can consume you. It's painful, complicated, and sometimes difficult to explain to people who haven't experienced it.

I lost my father in 2021, during the height of the pandemic. He'd been sick for some time, but somehow, he always made it through. Unfortunately, this time, due to liver and heart complications, he didn't. I find solace in knowing I could spend his last days with him despite COVID, but damn, it's hard.

My dad and I weren't always tight. We had our ups and downs, and for a long time, I carried hurt and resentment about the times I felt he wasn't there for me during pivotal moments in my life. I shut him out, even when he tried to reach me. I was stubborn and bullheaded, and at the time, I convinced myself that keeping him at a distance was the best way to protect myself from being hurt again.

But time, prayer, and healing have a way of changing your perspective.

Eventually, we started talking again. We hashed things out, and it wasn't always pretty. But I was an adult by then, and he treated me like one. He listened. He genuinely tried to understand where I was coming from, and he never condemned me for how I felt. We saw things differently sometimes. I was looking at our relationship through the lens of the child who had been hurt, while he was looking at it through the lens of the adult who had lived his own experiences. We didn't always agree, and we didn't have to.

We just had to be willing to hear each other. We both had a void, and eventually, I realized I didn't want to be angry anymore. Holding on to that anger took too much energy. I didn't want the hurt to be the only thing that defined our relationship. We needed each other, and somewhere along the way, we found our way back.

The last ten years of his life, we were thick as thieves, and I cherish those memories more than I can explain.

As our relationship grew, I realized we were more alike than different. My dad was the life of the party. Always going to some "affair," as he called them. He had an infectious personality and could dress his ass off. Never flashy, just a subtle swagger, if you will. Pinky ring, herringbone, Kangol, a little lining number. Always clean.

A lot of people loved him, but to me, he was just Daddy.

During one of his hospital stays, I remember him telling me he just wanted to live long enough to walk me down the aisle, and he did, and it was beautiful. He was so proud, and I loved seeing him happy and healthy.

I think, in a way, he wanted to make sure someone would be there to fill the void his presence would eventually leave. I remember before I got married, he stopped by and talked to us about his experiences and what marriage really meant. The good, the bad, and the ugly. He'd been married three times and had found his soulmate by then, so I trusted and respected his perspective.

I wonder what he'd say now that I'm divorced. He'd probably say, "It's okay, babygirl. Not everything is meant to last forever."

Then he'd tell me some story about his ex-wife—not my mama—doing voodoo on him for the millionth time. And I'd sit there listening like it was the first time I’d ever heard it. I'd give anything to hear that story again.

And that's the thing about grief. Sometimes, you don't realize how much you'll miss the little things until they're all you have left. The conversations you thought you'd have again. The stories you’ve heard a hundred times. The voice you could pick up the phone and call. The person who knew you before you became the woman you are today.

I grieved my father, but I also grieve the time we lost before we found our way back to each other. I grieve the moments he didn't get to witness, the conversations we'll never have, and all the times something happens in my life, and I think about what he might say.

But I'm grateful, too. Grateful that we had those last ten years. Grateful that we did the work. Grateful that we allowed ourselves the opportunity to see each other beyond the hurt. We didn't get a perfect relationship, but we got a relationship that was ours, and that means everything to me.

I've learned that grief isn't limited to losing someone to death. You can grieve people who are still alive. You can grieve friendships that ran their course, a marriage that didn't last, relationships that didn't turn out the way you hoped, and versions of yourself you had to leave behind.

I've grieved the loss of friends, my marriage, and the life I once thought I'd have. I've grieved connections that I thought would last forever and situations I had to accept were no longer meant for me.

Those losses are different from losing my father, and I would never pretend they're the same. But they carry their own kind of sadness. Sometimes you're not just grieving what happened; you're grieving what you hoped would happen. The future you imagined. The conversations you thought you'd have. The person you thought someone would become. The version of yourself you thought you'd be by now.

And sometimes, you have to grieve those things while still getting up, going to work, showing up for the people you love, and carrying on with your life. There's no funeral for every loss. No sympathy cards. No designated period when people expect you to be sad. Sometimes, the world doesn't even recognize that you've lost anything. You're just expected to move on.

But grief doesn't always mean you want something back. Sometimes, it means you're learning to accept that something has ended. You can miss someone and still know they no longer belong in your life. You can appreciate what a relationship taught you without needing to revisit it. You can be grateful for a chapter and still be ready to close the book. And sometimes, you can make peace with a loss and still have moments when it hurts all over again.

I think that's what makes grief so complicated. It doesn't follow a schedule, and it certainly doesn't ask for permission to show up. A song, a smell, a familiar place, a random memory—and suddenly, you're right back in a moment you thought you'd made peace with.

So I've learned to give myself grace. To let myself feel what I feel without rushing to make it make sense. To understand that healing doesn't mean I won't miss what I've lost. It means I can acknowledge the loss without allowing it to consume the life I still have.

I wish my dad were still here. I wish I could call him, hear his voice, laugh at his stories, and tell him about the life I'm living now. I wish I could hear what he'd say about some of the decisions I've made. Lord knows he'd have something to say.

I can't change the years we lost, and I can't bring him back. But I can hold on to what we built in the years we had. I can remember him with love, laugh at his stories, and carry the lessons he left me into the life I'm still figuring out.

Maybe that's what grief teaches us: not to stop loving what we've lost, but to learn how to carry that love differently.

And every now and then, when I think about my dad, I can smile through the ache.

Although, Daddy, if you can hear me, I sure could use one of those stories right about now.

LLL ❤️