I have been thinking about fathers in fragments.
These thoughts are neither linear nor lead to neat conclusions or inspirational endings. Just… fragments. Moments. Questions that don’t really have anywhere to go.
I lost my first father before I was old enough to understand what loss meant. At the time, it was just an absence. He was just a shape missing from the room that I didn’t yet know how to sit in.
The grief arrived years after the fact. It was as if life delayed the impact just long enough for it to land properly, when I was old enough to understand loss. I remember being seven and suddenly aware that something irreversible had happened. That there was a person I should have known better, and now never would.
It is a strange thing to grieve someone you are still trying to understand. And sometimes, I find myself being angry at the unfairness of it all.
And then, somehow, life gave me another father. There was no grand replacement, nor an attempt to fill a void. He was just a man who stepped into the space and stayed long enough for it to matter. Long enough for me to learn him. Long enough for him to become… my father, my Papa. It was chaos, it was glorious, it was perfect. It ended far too soon.
He died.
On Father’s Day. Which feels unnecessarily poetic. Almost suspiciously so. If I believed the universe had a sense of humor, I would say that was the punchline. A poorly timed one, but a punchline nonetheless.
COVID took him quickly. Too quickly for proper goodbyes, for preparation, for the slow emotional adjustment people like to imagine happens before loss. One day he was there. Then he wasn’t. And the world kept moving in a way that felt, and still feels, deeply inappropriate.
It has been five years.
Five years is apparently enough time for people to assume you are “better.” I am not entirely sure what that means. The grief is different now, yes. Quieter, maybe. Less theatrical. But it is still there, sitting somewhere in the background like a low hum I only notice when the room goes silent.
Some days I think I have made peace with it. Other days I am still angry. Angry at the suddenness of it. Angry at the lack of warning. Angry, if I am being honest, at him. Which feels irrational, because dying is not exactly a choice people make lightly.
But grief is not particularly interested in being reasonable. It asks questions like: Why did you leave? As if there was an alternative.
I have learned that part of surviving this kind of loss is allowing those contradictions to exist. To miss someone deeply and still to deeply resent them. To love them and be frustrated by the way they left. To carry both without trying to resolve the tension.
Today, I find myself thinking about this unfortunate club I find myself in. The Dead Dads Club. Many of us are in this club where membership is permanent and the initiation is traumatic. No one asked to be here.
Some of us joined early, before we even understood what a father was supposed to be. Others got more time, just enough to build something solid before it was ripped away. Either way, here we are, tired, a little emotionally unstable, and weirdly good at making jokes that clear a room.
If you’re new here (or a few years in and still confused, which is also normal), here are a few survival tips:
1. Cry like it’s your full-time job (because for a while, it is).
In the early days, crying is less of an emotion and more of a bodily function. Like breathing, but louder and with less dignity. Do it. Lean into it. Ugly cry. Cry in the shower, in public transport, while reheating food you won’t eat.
At some point, and this part feels fake until it happens, you’ll wake up and realize you didn’t cry that day. Not because you don’t care, but because your body got tired of carrying the same storm at full volume. It doesn’t mean you’re “over it.” It just means you survived another day.
2. Talk about him. Talk to him. Yes, out loud. No, you’re not crazy.
Grief is weirdly conversational. You’ll find yourself thinking, he would’ve hated this, or he would’ve loved this, or why did you leave like that? Say it. Write it. Argue with him in your journal. Tell him about your day. Tell him you’re angry. Tell him you’re tired.
Especially the anger part. Because no one really warns you that grief is also resentment, confusion, and the occasional urge to fight the air, not just sadness.
3. Develop a questionable sense of humor.
This is where things get fun. Or concerning. Depending on who you ask.
One of the few perks of being in the Dead Dads Club is that you unlock morbid humor. You can say things that make people deeply uncomfortable, and technically, no one can correct you.
“Oh, my dad would’ve loved this, if he wasn’t, you know… unavailable.”
Watch people panic. It’s a small joy, but it’s yours. And sometimes, laughing at the absurdity of it all is the only thing keeping you from screaming into the void. Which is also valid, but less socially acceptable in most settings.
4. Get therapy. Seriously.
Your dad probably taught you a lot of things. Maybe how to ride a bike, how to handle people, how to be stubborn in very specific ways.
What he did not teach you is how to exist in a world where he doesn’t. That’s not your fault. But it is now your responsibility.
Therapy won’t fix it. It won’t bring him back, won’t erase the day you lost him, won’t magically make Father’s Day feel normal again. But it might make the weight a little easier to carry. And sometimes, “a little easier” is the difference between functioning and completely falling apart in a market, at the stall of the lady selling tomatoes. (Yes, this did happen to me.)
5. Accept that “getting over it” is not a real thing.
People love this idea. That one day you’ll wake up, stretch, and think, Ah yes, I am healed. The grief is gone.
That day is fictional.
What actually happens is you learn how to live with it. You build a life around the absence. Some days you’ll miss him so sharply it feels fresh. Other days, it’s just a background hum.
Both are normal.
Father’s Day doesn’t help. It has a way of reminding you, quite publicly, of something deeply personal. There are posts and celebrations and somewhere in all of that, there’s you, without the physical manifestation of your father, holding memories that are becoming fuzzy the longer you live life without him.
If you are part of this strange club, remember, you’re not doing grief wrong. There’s no correct way to carry this. There is only the way you do. This club sucks but at least we have each other.