Losing My Dad

Notes from a daughter sitting in the silence of grief.

It actually happened. My dad passed away.

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.