I lost my dad unexpectedly a few months ago. No sign that anything was wrong, and then suddenly, he was gone. It’s been surreal, gut-wrenching, and everything in between, but that’s a story for another day.
One of the many things that shocked me in the days and weeks after he passed away was that life just seemed to go on. For everyone else, that is.
I would crawl out of bed in the morning – sleep was scarce those first few months – look out the window in a daze and sort of marvel that people just went about their day like nothing was wrong. Cars driving by, people walking dogs, neighbors chit-chatting. Like their world had not just shattered into a million pieces, oh, wait, that was just mine.
Despite being eight and nine years old, my kids are mature for their ages, most of the time. They are perceptive and empathetic, in tune with other people’s feelings as well as their own. People say kids know and understand much more than adults give them credit for, and I have found that to be absolutely true. But, they’re still kids.
And as awful as it was for my kids to lose their Papa, after a period of grief and adjustment, their lives returned to our new normal. And for me, as their mom, grief didn’t come with a pause button. It came with a permission slip I never actually used.
After the services and after family and friends traveled back home, my alarm still went off the next morning. School forms still needed to be signed. Lunches still needed to be made. Work emails still rolled in like nothing had happened. There’s this surreal moment when you’re standing in the kitchen, cutting up strawberries for a lunchbox, and your brain suddenly shouts, “My dad is dead.” And then, without missing a beat, you wipe the counter and remind someone to brush their teeth.
It’s like living two realities at once: one where you’re shattered, and one where you’re still packing snacks. People say “take all the time you need,” but the truth is, life quietly expects you back on duty. The kids still want to know what’s for dinner.
The dog still needs to go out. Your job still has deadlines. You’re actively grieving and also googling “easy crockpot chicken” because 5:30 will still roll around and everyone will still be hungry.
“Being strong” doesn’t mean not crying. Sometimes it means crying while you unload the dishwasher. Or tearing up in the car line and then wiping your face so you look normal when you greet your kids. It means answering, “Yeah, I’m okay,” when what you really mean is, “No, but I’m here.”
What no one tells you is that grief and normalcy get woven together. You can sit in a work meeting, nodding along, and in the back of your mind, you’re replaying your dad’s laugh. You can read a bedtime story with a lump in your throat because the voice you wish you could hear isn’t coming back.
And still, somehow, you keep going. Not because you’ve “moved on,” but because you’re moving with it.
You fold laundry with a broken heart. You answer emails with a broken heart. You show up for picture day, field trips, and dentist appointments with a broken heart. You start to realize: this is what love looks like after loss—carrying them with you into all the very ordinary, unremarkable days.
If you’re in that place right now—showing up for your family, your job, for your life while feeling like the sky is falling —I just want to say this:
You’re not doing it wrong.
You’re not “over it” too fast or “stuck in it” too long.
You’re a human who loved deeply and still has lunches to pack.
Your grief is valid, even if you’re answering Slack messages.
Your sadness is real, even if you’re laughing at your kid’s knock-knock jokes.
You’re allowed to miss your dad in the cereal aisle.
