It’s been four months since we said our final goodbyes to our father, and the void he left remains as vast and overwhelming as ever. They say time heals all wounds, yet it seems some wounds merely change shape instead of fully healing. As I write this at 42, I find that grief knows no age boundaries—it is a universal, raw, and relentless experience.

Scrolling through old messages from Papa is incredibly painful, realizing now that he’s gone forever. From my earliest memories until I was 16, he was my constant—my rock, my safe harbor. When I left home at 16 to carve out my own path, I naively assumed he’d always be there, as permanent as the stars in the sky.

Life, as it often does, threw its curves. By 24, I found myself widowed with a young baby, overwhelmed and unprepared. Without hesitation, my dad stepped in as my anchor in this storm. He sold all his pigs, the livelihood he had built with his own hands, to support us. “Go find a job,” he said, “I’ll take care of your son.” In my lowest moments, when I had nothing to offer, he opened his arms and his home to me.

Through the years, as I built my family, he remained a steadfast presence—always there but never intrusive, ready to catch me if I fell. His support was as quiet as it was unwavering, a silent sentinel in my life.

And then, one day, he was gone.

Gone forever.

Looking back, I realize how much I took his presence for granted as I focused on building my own life and family. The pain of regret is sharp—wishing for just one more moment to appreciate him, to thank him, to love him as openly and fiercely as he loved me.

Papa, I hope you knew how much you meant to me, even if I didn’t show it as often as I should have. You were my hero, not just in grand gestures, but in every quiet sacrifice you made. Thank you for every silent moment you spent in the wings of my life, ensuring I had a spotlight to shine. I miss you more than words can express.

In these quiet moments of the day, my tears are a reminder that grief doesn’t consider age. Navigating daily life without my father has been a journey of both adaptation and reluctant acceptance. His lessons, values, and the love he shared continue to guide me, though his absence is a sharp, continuous pang of sorrow. I’m learning that grief is not a linear path but a cyclical process—revisiting memories, emotions, and coming to terms with the loss repeatedly.

Contrary to the belief that adults should restrain their tears, I find myself embracing them. Grieving openly and honestly is not a sign of weakness; it’s a testament to love—a deep, enduring love that doesn’t conclude with death. My tears honor the life my father lived and the indelible impact he had on mine. Don’t be alarmed if you see me tearing up suddenly, even in front of the computer, pausing my work to let the emotions flow.

As I continue on this journey, I hold on to the understanding that it’s okay to still feel deep sadness, to miss him immensely, and to cry, regardless of my age.

This blog is my outreach to anyone else bearing the weight of a similar loss. You are not alone in your tears, and there is no “right way” to grieve. We all mourn in our own time and in our own way, navigating through our pain to find our path forward.