Diving Into Grief
And coming up for air
It occurred to me recently that I’ve buried a lot over the past couple of years - loved ones, pain, loss. I’ve tried to outrun my grief over so much that has happened, and I am unsure why. It isn’t like I have not felt the pain that comes with immense loss - undoubtedly a result of deep love.
I’ve mourned the passing of my mother, father, and other loved ones, many of whom I wasn’t able to say goodbye to. If you’ve ever felt the ache of unspoken goodbyes or the weight of loss, you’ll understand how these feelings can linger long after the moment has passed.
That may be the common denominator for me - how unspoken goodbyes linger and shape my ongoing grief, which I want to explore more deeply.
I thought I had worked through it when my Mom died. To this day, I remember our last call distinctly. But I never imagined it would be the last time I heard her cheerful voice. It took me a long time to come to terms with her death and my grief, highlighting how grief is a complex, ongoing process that many can relate to.
I eventually realized that grief is fluid, and sharing my story through writing helped me find hope and reassurance that healing is possible.
So, when my Dad died two years ago this week, it hit me differently. I had spoken to him only days before. He was in good spirits, and our conversation was lively. We complained about the weather, talked about food, and, as my dad would say, “we shot the shit.”
I told him I’d call him in a couple of days. We went back and forth that way.
But I never got the chance.
When the call came, it was from my oldest brother. Somehow, when I saw his name pop up on my phone, I knew something was wrong. I felt it before I even said hello.
Interestingly, my sister-in-law had a dream a few nights before Dad passed away. In it, our mom looked radiant. She was happy. Dad, on the other hand, looked stoic and ashen. If I recall correctly, he gave my brother a bottle of Whiskey in the dream.
Jarred by the dream, my sister-in-law told my brother, and he went down to check on Dad. He was fine and in good spirits. He spoke of a purchase he was considering - another “toy” to add to his collection. They, too, shot the shit.
The next day, Dad died unexpectedly, leaving me stunned and overwhelmed by the suddenness of his absence, which intensified my grief.
When his good friend couldn’t get him to answer the door - and she knew he was home - she called my oldest brother. He ran down to the house to check on Dad and sadly found him unconscious. He succumbed to multiple strokes, which left him barely breathing. He was taken to the hospital, where for the next few hours, he would live out his final day. Although I suspect his spirit had reunited with our Mom the moment he fell to the floor.
I recall my brother calling from the hospital room to give me an update, which was quite grim. We knew our Dad wouldn’t want to live that way, and my heart sank at the thought of the outcome. I’m sure that Mom came to the rescue and called him home. She was tired of living without her “Eddie,” and I can only imagine what their reunion must have been like. It had been a decade since her passing, after all.
I don’t know if Dad heard me when I spoke to him that night. My brother suggested that I talk to him. He was sure Dad would listen to me. But it wasn’t goodbye. How could it be? I couldn’t wrap my head around Dad being gone, just like I couldn’t when Mom died.
I always thought of my parents as invincible. They had conquered so many challenges through the years, including raising us three kids. I never wanted to think about the day either of them would be gone. They were my pillars of strength, my guides, and my best friends. Their sudden absence left a void that I struggled to fill.
But reality has a funny way of gut-punching you when you least expect it.
As I sit here typing this, I know I haven’t properly grieved the loss of my Dad. Too much transpired in those months following his death, where all I could do was triage each day. If you’ve ever felt overwhelmed by grief, like you’re just surviving rather than living, know that you’re not alone in this experience.
It wasn’t until my Uncle and godfather passed away a few months ago that I recognized I had buried my pain and loss. It was my way of coping amid the chaos.
When I learned of my Uncle’s death, it tore me in two. I went for a walk in the woods that evening, and I cried almost the entire hike. It wasn’t until I stopped and sat among the tall trees and smelled the faintest hint of autumn that I realized things. I felt both sadness and anger. Guilt and denial crept in as well. Depression that had been looming seemed to smack me in the face.
All these emotions I hadn’t felt in months bubbled to the surface.
Until then, I admit I had been devoid of many feelings. I went through the motions, wearing a mask because it was all I could do. I smiled when I wanted to cry. I said I was okay when really, I was barely holding it together.
In the woods alone that evening, however, I was forced to reconcile with what I pushed away. If you’re struggling to face your feelings, remember that healing often begins when we allow ourselves to feel and confront our pain, even when it’s uncomfortable.
Still, I’m unsure how I got here. I’ve been down the road before and honestly thought I had healed. But I guess too much fell on top of me, and the only way to get through it was to keep going.
The loss feels overwhelming, and I’ve been struggling to find my balance - but I remind myself that healing takes time and patience, and I believe others can find hope in that too.
However, I am my mother’s daughter, and I am intuitive enough to connect the dots.
It began when Henley, our 13-year-old golden retriever, passed away in late 2023, and then it felt like a domino effect. Dad died in early 2024, my husband suffered a job loss, my dear friend’s mom passed away after a brief battle with cancer, we got into a bad car accident, Covid showed up, and weeks later, my husband was diagnosed with congestive heart failure and was in and out of the hospital over the course of a couple of months. Then came surgery in early 2025, followed by another job loss. Despite this relentless barrage of challenges, I somehow managed to keep going.
What choice did I have? I’m the one who keeps it together - the glue that binds.
Other threads are intertwined, including personal struggles and life’s different challenges. They added to the weight of my grief and loss, making it more challenging to see my way through.
And so it goes.
The bright spot among all of this was buying a house at the end of 2024 and moving. In some ways, it saved my sanity. Being able to purge physical things gave me the strength I needed to focus on something. However, it only prolonged the aha moment when I would realize how much I had compartmentalized.
It takes a lot to acknowledge it. I’ve barely said it out loud. But putting it here in black and white makes it seem more digestible.
At times, it has been lonely and, at other times, scary to sit with these thoughts. I haven’t really been able to express them until now. It makes me incredibly sad that it took my Uncle’s passing to open the compartments to my heart. I never wanted it to be this way. It just happened.
I suspect something transcendent happened when I wrote and gave the eulogy for my Uncle. It was something I wasn’t sure I could do. But I felt my family’s strength there with me. My aura shows that a man and a woman who have passed are standing on either side of me. It calms me to know that Mom and Dad are by my side.
It’s been so different without them, and at times, it’s been lonely. I long to hear their voices, feel their touch, and listen to their laughter. All I have is what I remember.
So, my heart is sad tonight, and the tears are flowing freely. So much so that I’m having a hard time seeing the screen, but I will persevere. I can only hope that by writing this, I may begin to process slowly and move forward.
I know that time heals, and I know that the pain of loss doesn’t go away. But we can move forward with it.
Until next time. Thanks so much for letting me heal with words.
Laura, it was an honor to read this. Thank you. I'm glad you took that walk in the forest.
And of course, your words are making me think about the passing of my dad and mom. I wrote the eulogy for my dad's funeral, but I was so overcome with grief that I couldn't read it. I eventually understood that my pain was for what my dad and I never had for most of our lives together. We only became son and dad, friends, late in his life. He was bottled up and could never relate to me as a child.
My mom was similarly bottled up, but for a different reason, which she only shared on the doorstep to dementia. So much about her life—our life together— became clear, but by then it was too late.
I grieve for both these lost opportunities, but I am learning to focus and write about the good stuff.
Thanks again for putting yourself out there and lighting the way.
Thank you for writing this. I think we all bury grief. Reading this, I know I have also buried my own. The loneliness I think was the word that struck me to the core. After reading that, I had a hard time finishing this and seeing the screen through my tears. I miss my Daddy terribly. I will process this for a long time and some days are better than others. Some days grief wins.