Dear Grief

I turn twenty-six on Sunday. It doesn’t feel like a special birthday; it just feels like another year. But turning twenty-six means I’ve now lived thirteen years without my dad. Thirteen years with him, and thirteen without. It doesn’t seem right, does it?

When my dad passed away, I didn’t know what grief was. Thirteen years later, I know it well. What I’ve learned is that grief doesn’t have a beginning or an end. It changes with each season. Some years and days are harder than others, but grief is always there. Once I realized I couldn’t fight or ignore it, I learned to embrace it—allowing myself to sit with it when it comes and share it with others. Grief hurts more when it’s hidden.

This year, as I turn twenty-six, I’m leaning into it. I’m reflecting on the years I lived with my dad and the years I’ve lived without him. What a blessing to have both. So much has changed, but somewhere inside me is still that thirteen-year-old girl who secretly wanted to hold her dad’s hand and walk to school with him.

Here’s a letter I wrote to grief.

Dear Grief,

Hello, my old friend.

As I reflect on the years of our friendship, I remember how you knew me before I knew you. You engulfed me like a tidal wave before I even knew your name.

It wasn’t your fault. It was inevitable we’d meet, but I wish I’d had a proper introduction.

In the quiet moments when my thoughts catch up to me, and someone asks, “What’s wrong?” How do I tell them I just miss my dad?

You’re the only one who truly understands.

You’re always there. You never leave. Like a shadow, you follow me.

In moments of joy, you cast your shadow to remind me you’re near.

In moments of sadness, you overwhelm me to remind me I’m not alone.

Dear Grief, I’d say we’ve become pretty good friends.

Let's carry on hand in hand.