7 Years Without My Dad, and How I’m Still Learning to Live With Grief

A seven-year journey through loss, memory, and learning to carry love without being crushed by it.

Seven years

It lands in my chest like a bruise
I keep poking
to see if it still hurts.

It does.

This morning, before coffee, before the world stirred,
it came first:
Seven years today since I lost you, Dad.

Not the laundry, not emails, not the things I have to do.
Just that.

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What Missing Someone Becomes

Grief used to hit me like a tsunami.
Every song, every scent, every memory — unforgiving, unrelenting, pulling me under.
The sound of your laugh,
the smell of fresh-cut grass,
even a certain brush of wind — it all dragged me back.

Seven years later, it’s… softer.
It’s had time to settle into the bones of me,
like a murmur shaking in my marrow.

Most days, I carry it.
Other days, I reach for my phone,
half-expecting, half-hoping you’ll answer.
Dad, I need to tell you this…
Then reality hits.

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The Things That Still Catch Me

The other day, while standing at the living room window.
Tea warm in my hands,
steam curling like tiny ghosts.
The street yawning awake.

And there they were
a father and his little girl.

She had pigtails bouncing, pink sneakers that made a soft tap-tap.
Her hand tiny in his.
She ran, he slowed.
Perfect rhythm.

She looked up at him
like he was the sun, the moon, the sky,
like he was her safety net.

I caught my breath.
Because that used to be us.

Two steps for every one of yours.
You always waited. Always slowed.
The world felt quiet, manageable, safe.

I stayed at that window until they disappeared,
tea gone cold,
heart tender and raw.

God, I miss being your little girl.

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The Conversations I Still Have

I still talk to him.

Out loud sometimes, when no one’s around.
In the shower.
While I’m gardening.
Waiting for toast to pop.

“Dad, I’m so tired of being sick.”
“Dad, I’m writing a book about my childhood”

Last month, I burned a grilled cheese
daydreaming again…
and I told you about my book.

For a moment,
I could almost smell your Old Spice.
Almost hear you clear your throat before advice.
Almost feel you leaning against the counter, listening.

I froze.
Spatula in hand.
Was it real? Did I imagine it?

It doesn’t matter.
For thirty seconds,
you were here.

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The Weight of Seven Years

This week, hit me hard.
All the highs you’ve never seen.
Lows you’ll never know.
I’ve laughed without you.
Cried without you.
I’ve healed from things
you never got to see me survive.

And it breaks my heart
in a different way now.

Here’s what I wish I could tell you:

I made it, Dad.
I crawled out of the darkness
that tried to swallow me whole.
I learned how to love myself.
I learned how to ask for help.
I learned how to sit with pain
without letting it drown me.

I wish you could see
that the scared, broken girl you left behind
found her way toward peace.
That she could grieve you
without losing herself completely.

And yet…
I wish I could have helped you find it too.
Shown you that healing was possible.
That the demons you carried
didn’t have to define most of your story.

Seven years of wishing
I could rewrite the ending.

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What Stays

Some things haven’t changed:

The warmth of your bear-like hug.
Your laugh over Sunday pancakes.
The smell of your work shirts.
The soft click of your keys on the desk.
The relief on your face we were reunited.

Love hasn’t faded.
If anything, it’s clearer.
Distilled.
Less tangled in human mess.

I love who you were at your best.
I forgive who you were at your worst.

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The Hope in the Years

Seven years later.
I am still your daughter.
Still learning how to live.
Still growing.

Still finding joy in simple things.
Still letting love fill my days.
The sunlight on my cheek.
The smell of coffee in the morning.
The taste of bread toasted just right.

Most days, I am okay.

And I think
you’d be proud of who I’am.

Seven years, Dad.
I’m still here.
I still miss you.
I still carry the love you left behind.

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A Moment for You

If you’re carrying a grief like this, I want to hold it with you.

Who do you miss? What do you wish you could say?

Let’s say it together. Let’s remember them out loud.

Grief deserves gentleness. And so do you.

With love,
Debra 💛

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Inspiration Corner

To support you wherever you are on your healing journey,
here’s one book, one quote, and one song that have helped me along the way.

Book: The Light Between Worlds by Laura E. Weymouth — about returning from loss, carrying sorrow and hope together.

Quote: “The reality is that you will grieve forever. You will not ‘get over’ the loss of a loved one; you will learn to live with it.” — Elisabeth Kübler-Ross

Song: Holocene by Bon Iver — fragile, aching, and full of memory.

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