If I’m honest, I’ve never been the kind of person who easily opens up. I’ve always been more private, the type to hold everything in and pretend I’m fine. But over the years, I’ve realized that silence only makes grief heavier. It builds walls between you and the world, and sometimes, all you really need is to be heard. So here’s my story not because it’s easy to tell, but because it’s real.
My dad was a man who lived a hundred lives before I even existed. He worked as a casino manager in London, once trained in Las Vegas, and could count cards so well he wasn’t even allowed to gamble. He spent his free time chasing live music Pink Floyd, Tom Petty, Eric Clapton you name it, he saw them. My mom, on the other hand, came from a small quiet town and moved to London to model. She wasn’t tall enough for the runway, but her beauty was timeless. She’d been married before and had three children, my siblings. When her husband passed away young, it left her heartbroken until she met my dad, the man she once swore she couldn’t stand. Somehow, opposites really did attract.
I was their miracle baby the little girl my dad always said he’d never have until he met my mom. My childhood felt like something out of a dream. Our home was full of laughter, food, and people the kind of place where music played all day and the door was always open. My dad’s records filled the air; his love for music became ours. I adored him and I adored my mom even more.
But as life does, everything changed. My dad lost his job when the casino was sold, and it broke something in him. He began to drink, to retreat into himself. As a teenager, I pushed back hard — sneaking out, rebelling, doing everything I knew he wouldn’t approve of. Then came his diagnosis: COPD. Watching his health fade was like watching the strongest man I knew crumble in slow motion.
And then, just when life felt heavy, I met Joe. He was calm where I was chaos. Patient where I was stubborn. He didn’t just love me; he softened me. He helped mend the cracks between my dad and me. At our wedding in 2013, my dad sick, frail, and exhausted still found the strength to walk me down the aisle and even dance with us. That moment will forever live in my heart.
Not long after, our daughter Olive was born, and my dad’s world lit up again. But his body couldn’t keep up. Three days after being rushed to the hospital, he was gone. I was shattered. You always think you have more time. For weeks, I couldn’t function. Losing him was like losing part of myself.
Years later, I thought I’d learned how to handle loss until my mom got sick. Cancer. Two of them, in fact bowel and pancreatic. True to form, she hid it at first, not wanting to worry anyone. When I found out, I refused to believe it. Denial was easier than facing the truth. But when the doctor told her to take that family holiday because “she might not get another chance,” reality hit hard.
She passed seven weeks after being given her prognosis. I watched her fade in front of me the woman who had always been my anchor, my confidant, my best friend. Losing her broke me in ways words can’t explain. I became what they call an “adult orphan” at 34. It’s a lonely kind of grief one that lingers even when the world moves on.
Grief doesn’t disappear; it just changes shape. Some days it feels lighter, others it sits heavy in my chest. I wear my mom’s wedding ring and play my dad’s favorite songs loud in the car. I see two robins in my garden every morning, and I tell myself it’s them checking in, making sure I’m okay.
One day, my daughter hugged me tight and said, “I’m sorry, Mom. You’re very young to have no mom and dad, but I’m here whenever you feel sad.” That was the moment I realized love doesn’t end when someone dies. It just shifts.
So to anyone walking through loss: you don’t have to be strong all the time. You don’t have to pretend you’re okay. Grief has no timeline. Cry, remember, talk, and let people in. Because love even after loss is what keeps us going.
