A Letter To Those Of You Missing A Dad On Father’s Day

Today is my first Father’s Day without my Dad.

I wish I’d have known that this day last year would be your last Father’s Day on earth. Although I’m comforted by the knowledge that I never fell short of telling you how much I loved you, I can’t help thinking that if only I’d told you a little more often, or hugged you a little tighter, you’d have chosen to stay.

The past few weeks leading up to today, everywhere I’ve turned, I’ve been not-so-subtly reminded that my Dad is no longer here. The card aisles, gift advertisements on the radio and TV, emails with gift offers, ads on Instagram, and Facebook. Every one of these things has been like a hot knife searing through my heart.

My Dad never wanted or needed anything - the thing he cherished most of all was a handwritten letter - so in the past, it was frustrating to try and think of a gift that would show my love and appreciation for him. Now, I would give anything to have this problem.

I am reminded over and over again that this year, I won’t be able to give my Dad a handmade card or a new jar of aniseed balls (his favourite, that he’d eat sparingly and make last the entire year until the next Father’s Day came around). I’m reminded that I won’t be able to run into his bedroom, jump on the bed and bring him morning coffee and porridge topped with blueberries shaped in a heart.

On this day I’ve always felt like the little girl inside of me has been re-ignited. I’ve honoured the laughter shared, watching him open his gifts seeing the gratitude pour out of his eyes. The touch of his lips on my forehead as he kissed me goodnight and thanked me for making his day so thoughtful and reminding him that he is loved.

This year, my letter will be placed in a glass vial, released to the river, and carried to the ocean, in the hope that it will eventually reach the end of the earth and be passed on to my Dad.

I’m still very much swimming among the tidal waves of emotions that come with losing someone you love to suicide: the sudden, holy-shit-is-this-still-real; to the life is beautiful, and it’s okay that your dad isn’t here, you are continuing his legacy. I still haven’t found my feet, and that’s okay. I’m not sure that I ever will, but a part of me is okay with that, too.

If this is your situation this year, I’m writing to you. Please know you aren’t alone.

Maybe you lost your father to death. Maybe you never knew your father to begin with. Maybe ‘father’ has just never been a part of your vocabulary. Whatever the reason today is difficult for you – you are not alone.

Today really hurts. And I can’t sugarcoat that.

But I am with you.

Let yourself feel whatever you need to feel. Be gentle with yourself and if something as benign as a Groupon email with the headline “Perfect Gifts For Your Dad” makes you cry into your mug of coffee, then let that be okay, and cry. Let your tears carry the weight of your pain and sit with the grief wash through you.

If your loss is still raw or recent, the pain may feel devastating, the hole in your heart may feel palpable, the loneliness may feel crushing, but I am carrying this with you. With all of my heart, I wish I could tell you it will be okay, but I know you’ve heard that plenty of times, so all I have is the confidence to tell you that you are seen and your voice is heard, even if you can’t speak the words you feel so deeply out loud.

I know how much it hurts, and how fatigued you are from just trying to keep your head above the water. I know how exhausted you are from holding the tears back and I know how scared you are feeling to be so alone in this dark space. You want help and support, but you don’t know what kind of support you need. You don’t know who to turn to or what to ask for, because you just don’t know what will help. You have no ideas left as to what will lift this heavy haze, this immeasurable sadness.

And my darling, that’s all okay.

I can’t fix what hurts right now. And sadly I have no magical dust that will bring you immediate relief from this grief and void. But I can bring you hope. Or at least, I can encourage you to remember that hope exists. I can remind you of how loved and cared you are, despite the pain you are currently embodying. I can remind you that your father is still with you.

I know how difficult it can be to find hope when everything feels so very dark. I know what it feels like to have nothing to hold on to, nothing to steady yourself with, and nothing to believe in. But I still urge you to try. Try to be open to having hope. Because above all, even when things are awful and heavy and even when life feels insurmountable, there is a certain beauty in learning how to have hope. It is learning that faith exists and that faith is real. It’s reminding yourself, over and over again, that you can have faith in tomorrow. It’s learning that the load will never fully go away, but it will ease in time. It’s learning that life ebbs and flows and that the goodness will outweigh the darkness in due time. All I ask of you is that you try your very hardest to trust that things won’t feel this way forever.

And sometimes you have to remember that the universe is huge, and you are tiny, and that your Dad is watching over you. He is with you in spirit, energy, and light. So, speak to him. Write to him. Hold tight to his jumper and smell his presence. Let him carry this grief with you.

I encourage you to take solace in the knowledge that something out there in that vast open sky, is working with you. Maybe it’s God, the Universe, or the Heavens. Maybe it’s Source energy, Higher-Power or Inner-Knowing. Maybe it’s magic, or maybe it’s your loved one looking down on you through the light in the sky. Or, maybe it’s just the stars and the sky and that bright shimmering moon that are shining light on you, letting you know that you are safe, that you will be okay.

And please know that even when your heart is burnt out and your soul is tired, your light still shines. Even when the hurt is reflected in your eyes, I hope you remember that you are something so precious that the universe made only one of you. And when things are hard, I hope you don’t forget this. I hope you don’t become so afraid of life that you forget to believe in yourself and that you are capable of healing.

So if you are struggling today, know this: that even though life can be so intensely painful, even though it can hurt more than you could ever have imagined, it will ease. Today, I am still learning to trust this - and maybe you are too. I’m learning to trust that eventually, it will subside. And I will be okay again. You will be you again. And know that even though you may feel like you have nothing left to live for, you always always always have something to live for. You are so loved. And there are many people out there just waiting to know you and love you.

So, please, hold on. Grief becomes more gentle. Pain lifts. Fear fades. Depression eases. Anxiety lightens. And in time, the sunset will look much more like a sunrise. In time, the nights won’t be quite as terrifyingly lonely. And in time, you will find your way again.

And when the pain fades, you will emerge with your feet planted more firmly on the ground.

Your Dad is with you always, you are never alone.

My Daddy, my brave, loving, wholehearted soul.

I’m sorry, again, that your pain was so deep that you felt you could no longer continue your life. I long so much to see you once more, to hold you tighter than I ever have before, and scream into your ears that you are loved and so important here. But I can’t. All I have is the pictures, your letters, and a heavy heart of memories and learnings.

The whole tragedy of your death has taught me a new essence of life. One where we make the conscious choice to live a life that fills our heart with grace, with authenticity, with genuine warmth, and love. Our life’s moments are too precious and much too delicate for anything less to penetrate the beauty of our soul. And Dad, I believe this is what you always wanted me to learn. I wish this didn’t have to be the way of you sharing this life’s lesson, but it is, and I surrender my faith to the divine intervention of the universe and the journey of your soul.

Thank you for providing me with the happiest moments of my life and for teaching me to follow the sweet callings of my heart. As terrified as I am that I will forget the sound of your voice, I will never forget the comfort your presence granted me. You were safety and warmth. You were everything I hope and try to be. Thank you for showing me the true definition of fatherhood, love, and humanity.

I love you. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you.