You don’t realize the weight of words until one delivers a message that shatters your world. I got that call at work. The restaurant phone rang, and I answered as usual, “Thank you for calling Pizza Nea, how can I help you?” My mother’s voice came through with a single word: “Emily…” The blood drained from my face. “Your dad is dead.” “What? How? No, please…” I barely remember my next moments. My legs gave out, and my mind went blank. I was in my first year of graduate school, and suddenly, everything spun out of control. My immediate thought was for my little brother, Matt, who I needed to come home and help care for.
Matt, my father’s full-time responsibility, is autistic and non-speaking. His sensory needs are high, and he can become dysregulated, putting himself and others at risk. My bond with Matt had always been deep, so stepping in felt natural, yet overwhelming. Days and nights blurred together as my mother, sister, and I tried to maintain some semblance of care, often running on no sleep at all. Nights were especially hard. In the quiet of the house, my father’s absence pressed down on me.
I searched for indications, anything that might help me understand the abrupt loss. I held onto brief instances: I reached out to my family daily during the last months of his life, a routine I hadn’t followed in years. He came to see me the weekend prior to his passing, assisting me in getting a new car, the first visit in several months. My sister, too, happened to visit the night before he passed away. Just hours before he passed away, he sent me a message: “Goodnight, dear princess
After he was gone, more signs seemed to appear birds outside windows, objects falling, unpredictable weather. I was desperate to feel him near, to understand that he was still present in some way. But eventually, silence would remind me of the truth: he was gone. Just gone. No plan, no reason, only absence. The first two months were surreal. We scrambled to find a group home for Matt, navigating his meltdowns while trying to process our own pain. Life outside our home seemed almost trivial friends posting on social media about minor frustrations while we existed in chaos. Returning to graduate school, I felt isolated. Nights were filled with longing for my father’s laugh, his advice, his presence. The grief was raw, different from any sadness I had felt before. It wasn’t something to overcome; it was something to endure.
Over time, I realized grief doesn’t vanish. It evolves. While the sharpest pain of his death lessened, the emptiness remained, shifting its shape as life moved forward. Each anniversary reminds me of the moments leading up to his passing and the memories that made him who he was his voice, his expressions, his way of making everyone feel loved. I have obsessively reflected on life and death, savoring every detail of moments with him, but nothing prepared me for the reality of losing him. Savoring memories can’t restore him, yet it has taught me to cherish life differently.
Grief now feels like a companion I carry rather than a wound to fix. It ebbs and flows, showing up unexpectedly, but I’ve learned to coexist with it. There are days when it is heavy and others when it is almost unnoticed. I celebrate my father not by lingering in sorrow but by living fully by embracing laughter, connection, and the things he loved. In moments of joy with my family or when the world reminds me of him, I feel his presence. Grief has not left me stronger or happier; it has simply evolved, shaping the way I live, love, and remember.
