Somewhere soon after I started this writing project, I froze in my grief. I broke. I wept…and there were times I didn’t think I was going to survive through it. I felt like I was losing myself to something I couldn’t place. Maybe it was death itself? Could I handle my mortality anymore? And every time I got to that point, I could feel a tug from something gently bringing me back and saying… “Yes. You must.”

I haven’t spoken up about my dark moments to anyone while they are going on. I casually mention it to just a few of my most important people when I am able to mask and compartmentalize. Now I am doing it here so I can address it…even if to myself for healing. But no one is bearing witness to my falling-apart nightly routine. My breakdowns are private, intense, and they feel like a million deaths of an old self I will never be again.

I don’t like to show my pain. I don’t like crying in front of people. Maybe it’s because when I was young, and as a sensitive and emotional person, my Dad would yell at me for crying in front of him. He would yell, “Stop crying!” and I would run away to my room and cry harder and quieter, just away from him. In those moments, all I needed was a hug. To be seen. To be heard. But my father didn’t know how to process emotions. If he was yelling at me to stop crying… what stopped him from crying when he was young?

Was it the Nuns at his Residential Indian School on our reservation? They would hit them all, hold them upside down in punishment, and smash their knuckles with rulers for being “out of line.” Or maybe it was his generation. He had to be tough. Emotion wasn’t for men… it was for women.

Yet, in his later years, my Dad couldn’t hide his emotions behind a stern poker face anymore. He couldn’t bury them. He couldn’t stop them from becoming him. In all his years of avoiding those special parts of himself, he finally discovered his emotions in a more outward way. He cried in front of me several times in his older age as he softened and became more sentimental than I am for various reasons. Sometimes, he reflected on his activism work and what it took for him to do what he did. Whenever he would cry, I swallowed my tears. In awe of what I was witnessing, and empathetically, overcome with emotions that I felt in my being, of what he was going through. What he was feeling. I’ll never forget those moments.

And unfortunately, there were a couple of times when I yelled at him out of frustration for things he did that upset me, realizing now that we went full circle there. Now I was the one who made him cry for yelling at him. I still feel bad for those times. I am so sorry, Dad.

I miss him. His big love. His nightly calls. His neediness and goofiness. He was (and still is) my person. I hope he’s messing around with his cousins in the Universe, pranking us all and making us think ghosts haunt us or that we are losing our minds with misplaced belongings. I wouldn’t put it past them—biggest stinkers of all of LCO reservation. There has never been that kind of humor thereafter this special bunch of goofballs.

Years of fear and anticipation—growing up with an older father—always motivated me to prepare for this moment. But I’m not sure it helped. Maybe that’s something I’ll never really know. Because once you open the door to this level of grief, there’s no turning back. Life is never the same. We are never the same.

The circle of life comes to mind as I sit in this unfamiliar space. The concept? Understood. The experience? All new.

In this quiet moment, I feel sad knowing my son will one day experience what I am going through now. There’s nothing like losing a parent—especially one you’re deeply close to. As a daughter, I now feel slightly untethered from the force that has steadied me for all 41 years of my life. A parent’s presence is a constant—quiet, dependable. It shields you as you grow and define who you are. And when that presence shifts or disappears… it’s like a tether has been loosened, or maybe transformed into something else I haven’t yet come to understand.

He was also my tether to my connection with my Native American culture, my reservation and I was always so scared to lose that connection when he passed away. That is another realm of topic I will share sometime, but I am happy to report that I am building pathways and bridges now as I reclaim that part of my identity.

All of this is a strange, aching feeling. A void… I am sad. This is hard.

My father was 44 when he had me. That age difference shaped my experience in ways that didn’t always align with my peers. I went through certain milestones earlier than most. He had a previous marriage and children before me—my half-siblings are nearly 20 years older. They’re approaching 60 now, the age when people often lose their parents. But here I am, in my early 40s, and it just feels… different. Not better, not worse—just a different season of life. I share this grief with them, but it feels unique to where I am right now. That’s not a comparison, just an acknowledgment. A way to validate why I’m feeling the things I’m feeling.

Feeling so young for this, I do wish I had more time with him. I think many people feel that (especially those younger than me who go through this). But I’m also so deeply grateful for the time we did have. It’s essential to keep that perspective close.

My father, always introspective and sometimes weighed down by depression or anxiety, often tried to prepare me for his eventual passing. He started those conversations in my early twenties—while I was still trying to find myself. That preparation made me grow up in ways I wasn’t ready for, but it also planted a voice in my mind that always whispered, “He could go at any point—make the time count.”

So I moved closer to him. I shaped my life to allow more presence, more shared moments. I don’t regret that. I never will.

I miss him. His daily calls.

My dad would always call me if I was traveling to a new or unfamiliar area in the city. He’d spy on me through Life360—and if I was somewhere he didn’t recognize, he’d call until I picked up and ask, “What are you up to?” It always made me laugh, but I knew it was just his way of watching over us, making sure we were safe.

He was such a good and protective dad.

What used to feel a little annoying—his inopportune calls while I was with clients, usually because he needed help with his phone—is now something I miss tremendously.

It’s funny how even the interruptions become precious when they’re gone.

When I became pregnant with my son, my dad was there for me. When I gave birth—no female family present—he stayed at the hospital the entire time. He was there for every milestone. Every transition. Every hard and beautiful thing. I’m proud I could be there for him, too—especially in those final moments.

Just before he passed, I told him, “You showed me how to be a good parent, and I am so grateful to you for that—for being the best Dad.”
Tears well as I type that. I’ll share more about that moment in another post.

But for now, I just want to say this:
Preparing for the loss of a parent is a strange, unpredictable thing. You can get paperwork in order, talk about it, try to ready your heart. But when it happens, it shakes your world in ways no checklist can prepare you for. And each of us, we deal with it in our own ways.

Right now, I’m quiet. Reclusive. Tired.
And I’m reminding myself that that’s okay.

If you’ve experienced a loss like this, I see you.
If you’re navigating the complexities of grief or trying to make sense of your own journey with a parent, I’d love to hear your story. Feel free to share in the comments or reply privately. Let’s hold space for each other—grief is heavy, but we don’t have to carry it alone.