Grief has No Template
A Personal Reflection
It has been just three weeks since my dad passed, but nearly ten since the accident that set cruel events in motion. In this fragile span of time, I’ve come to better understand what so many people have probably told you before: that grief does not follow a timetable, and there is no template.
Grief is not something you can schedule, manage, or predict. Everyone processes it differently. Some rush to social media seeking prayers, sympathy, or simply a connection. Others withdraw into silence, brooding alone and shutting out the world. I find myself somewhere between these extremes, navigating grief in fits and starts, trying whatever I think might work, learning as I go.
On the same day my dad passed, my best friend lost his father too. Then, just over three days later, my dad's older brother died. What amounted to three funerals in two days left me numb, discouraged, and utterly defeated. Grief piled on top of grief, each loss compounding the weight until I felt like I was moving through a fog, struggling to process any of it. There was no time to catch my breath, no moment to pause and fully mourn one loss before the next wave hit. It was overwhelming, leaving me questioning how much more I could take.
The responsibility of being a father, brother, son, husband and friend kept me moving, giving me purpose through the blur of loss. But once the ceremonies ended and I returned home and to work, it was as if a cell door slammed shut, leaving me in solitary. The weight of everything I’d been holding back pressed in, and the distractions were gone, replaced by a deafening silence that forced me to face my grief head-on.
One bright spot: a compassionate workplace is a rare and invaluable gift. It is an enormous comfort to be surrounded by people who recognize that we are human first, employees second. Finding true empathy in the workplace is platinum-level luck — a reminder that in the face of loss, our shared humanity matters more than deadlines or deliverables.
Beyond work, I’ve also learned that no distraction — no amount of drinking, exercising, eating, NFL games or shopping — can truly dull the ache for long. Grief demands to be felt.
Music has been both a refuge and a magnifying glass for what I’m feeling. The “Dad Died Playlist” that once felt medicinal now feels dreadful, as if I’ve ruined some songs forever by tying them to Dad’s death. Sometimes the notes echo with grief, pulling me deeper into the sadness instead of lifting me out of it. Music, like grief, can heal, but it also has a way of exposing wounds I’m not fully ready to face.
The weight of it all shows up in unexpected ways: anger that follows a sudden wave of tears, a sharp tongue wielded against those who least deserve it, or a hollow wish for things to simply make sense. And then there are the moments that make me question my own grasp on reality—like the fleeting shadow on the stairs. Was that a ghost behind me, or just my grief playing tricks on my mind?
Religion is a salve for many people I know, but for me, it has offered no answers or relief beyond the comfort derived from dear friends asking if they may pray for me. I at once love them for caring and deeply envy them their faith. There is no divine intervention for this pain, no neat explanation for why my dad had to endure such suffering in his final weeks. I have tried to pray. A quiet wish for the hurt to lessen — that’s the most I’ve found myself able to muster.
Grief is early days for me, and I know the road ahead will be long and uneven. I still wrestle with the haunting image of my dad’s body and spirit broken by a careless driver’s mistake. I struggle to find peace with the fact that he suffered so deeply, and that his final days were marked by pain.
Lest you think my relationship with Dad was perfect, it wasn’t. It was a tangled mix of love, anger, and unspoken disappointment. I know I was no picnic in my youth. Still, beneath it all, I know he did the best he could — and I loved him anyway.
I guess I’m realizing that grief isn’t just about Dad being gone—it’s about him leaving me behind. And isn’t that perverse? He’s the one who endured the suffering, the one who faced the end, and yet here I am, consumed by the ache of my own loss. He’s leveled up, moved on to whatever comes next, while I’m still here, stuck in the wreckage of it all. What’s harder to confront is the little boy still inside me, the one Dad couldn’t quite figure out or help in the ways I needed. That boy is here too, mourning not just his father, but the echoes of every moment they couldn’t fully connect.
Grief has a way of stripping relationships down to their barest truths, forcing you to confront both the love and the imperfections. As I sit with the weight of losing him, I’m finding that the complexities of our bond don’t diminish my sorrow — they deepen it, making the loss all the more raw and real. I was too hard on him at times, and now that he’s gone, I see those moments more clearly, etched with both regret and understanding.
Right now, I don’t want to do anything. I don’t want to be anywhere. Yet, I must. My daughter depends on me. My wife will need me to get back to my old self someday. And I know Dad would hate to see me like this — stuck in sorrow. So I take tentative steps forward, even when every part of me wants to stand still.
This isn’t a story of triumph. It isn’t a lesson neatly tied with a bow. It’s just where I am: raw, unsure, angry, and living in the shadow of loss. None of us will leave by the same road we came in on, and in the meantime I wish I knew where the offramp from grief might be. So, it’s not much of an uplifting message, but it’s honest.
As I said, there is no template. And for now, that’s all I can offer.