On Grief, Music, and the Father I Still Talk to When No One’s Around
I wasn’t expecting it.
Isn’t that how it always goes?
One moment I’m standing in the shower, letting the hot water wash away the sleep, humming along to a random song on Spotify—and then, The Eagles. “Wasted Time.”
A song I hadn’t heard in years, maybe since before my dad died. And there it was, just… playing. Uninvited but not unwelcome. The opening piano note was like a key turning in a locked door I didn’t even realize I was still guarding.
I didn’t cry right away. No, I tried to stay composed. Tried to breathe through it.
But the grief—I swear, it knows your name.
Some days, grief walks in wearing his old boots and leaves dirt all over the floor of my heart. Those are the days when it feels like he’s still here, still pressing in, as real as the day he left.
Seven Years
That number has sat in my mouth like gravel all week. I keep thinking about everything he’s missed.
The books I’ve written.
The grief I’ve carried.
The healing I’ve crawled through.
The becoming that broke me open in ways I wish he’d lived to see.
Because the truth is—he was always my person.
The one I could talk to about anything.
The one who raised me, with the steady help of my grandmother.
It wasn’t perfect. But it was ours.
And in a world that often felt unkind or unsafe, he was where I landed.
But even in the safety he gave, there were shadows lurking. I remember one night—his hands shaking slightly as he tucked me in, the smell of whiskey lingering just behind the cologne he’d sprayed to hide it. He still kissed my forehead. Still told me he loved me. And I believed him. But I also learned, even then, how to read the room before I entered it. How to tiptoe around what hurt him so it wouldn’t hurt me too.
Unspoken trauma. Generational pain. That persistent, inherited grief that gets passed down like bad china, chipped and cracked and still placed on the table anyway.
I used to believe, with every ounce of my little girl heart, that he could do no wrong.
He was my hero. My constant. I loved him so wholly, so blindly, it took me years to understand that sometimes the people we worship as children are often the ones who wound us —not out of malice, but because they were never taught how to hold anything with tenderness, not even themselves.
My dad had demons. The kind you drink to forget. And he did… for most of his life.
Grief isn’t just about what you’ve lost.
It’s about what never had a chance to be.
There are conversations we never had.
Parts of me he never got to meet.
Healing I wish I could’ve offered him, or at least invited him into.
But time ran out abruptly.
And now I carry the things I never said to him in a folder of unmailed letters.
I don’t pretend he was perfect.
I know what hurt.
But I also know the way he laughed. I know he made the best grilled cheese sandwiches on the planet. I know he tried his best, even when he was drowning. I know he loved me. And most days, that’s enough.
Most days, I let it be.
I still remember the way he’d whistle always off-key while flipping grilled cheese at the stove, like it was his sacred Sunday ritual. I’d sit at the kitchen table, legs swinging, watching him hum along to songs from decades past.
Those were the sweet, golden moments.
And sometimes, when the weight of missing him feels unbearable, I still talk to him. I’ll speak aloud, asking his advice, telling him about the things he’s missed, wishing I could hear his voice, even if it’s just in my head. I know he’s not here, but in some strange, distant way, he still is.
A Moment for You to Pause
If your heart is heavy today with loss, with painful memories, I see you.
You are allowed to grieve the love you needed and didn’t get.
You are allowed to grieve the person they could’ve been.
You are allowed to miss someone and still be angry with them.
Two truths can live inside you, side by side.
That’s the messy miracle of healing.
That’s the tension we learn to hold with grace.
My 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 feel less alone as I grieve and remember:
📖 Book: What My Bones Know by Stephanie Foo
This memoir helped me understand that growing up afraid shapes not just your childhood but your entire sense of self.🖋 Quote:
“Childhood trauma does not come back as a memory. It comes back as a reaction.”
— Bessel van der Kolk, The Body Keeps the Score🎧 Song: Saturn by Sleeping At Last
Whenever I listen to this song, it reminds me that even the hardest truths can become softer over time.
Let’s Keep the Conversation Going
I’d love to hear about the people you’re missing and the stories that still live inside you. Let’s write our way through it together.
With you always,
Debra 💛
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Debs, this is heartbreakingly beautiful. You’ve put words to the kind of love and grief that lives deep in the quiet corners of us—the kind that resurfaces with a song, a scent, a memory we didn’t even know we were guarding.
Your line “I know he loved me. And most days, that’s enough.” stopped me in my tracks. It holds so much grace and acceptance, and the way you shared those Sunday memories—off-key whistling, grilled cheese, swinging legs—felt like a hug from the past.
This piece is a gift to anyone still carrying love and loss side by side. Thank you for letting us sit at that kitchen table with you. I’m so honoured to walk this path beside you. Always here, always cheering you on. 💛😭🤗✨️
My Mums Dad passed away in August 2021 and her Mum in April 1996. 😭❤️