Recently, I was cleaning our house in preparation for friends coming over to meet our newborn son. As I was putting away baby items (who knew newborns required so much stuff?) and guessing if the burp cloth on the couch needed washing (always yes), I found myself thinking about two friends who recently lost their fathers.
It is hard to figure out the right thing to say, even when you empathize deeply with the pain of losing a parent.
I often go back to some of the best advice I received the week after my dad died: “While the pain never goes away, it does get easier.” But as I hit another big milestone without my dad — my first Father’s Day — I feel that piece of advice needs a small amendment.
I lost my dad when I was 28. We were incredibly close and he could not have been a better father. He was never afraid to cry or give you a hug or kiss on the head when he was overwhelmed with pride or just excited to see you.
While actions had consequences, I never doubted his love. He was a consistent figure at school events and extracurriculars — anything I was doing was the most important thing possible. And he was supportive: “Go be who you want to be, just be sure to call, OK?” I sure wish I had picked up the phone more.
I think about my dad regularly. Daily reminders through common sayings (“Do the little things right”; “What are you doing when no one is looking?”) or symbols (you’ll often find me wearing his 1979 Seiko).
He was sick most of my life, so his death wasn’t a surprise. More of an oncoming inevitability. And while I was devastated when he died — a devastation mixed with relief that his suffering would not be prolonged — it wasn’t until the past few years that I realized I wasn’t actually grieving his death. I was sad. There was something missing, but I wasn’t doing the hard work of experiencing the emotions that come from losing someone so close.
Grief is a tortuous journey that masks itself and tricks you into thinking you have grieved. My path has been relatively smooth — an amazing partner, a growing family, professional fulfillment, stability in times of economic uncertainty. I also share a special bond with three close friends — brothers — who I have known for over 20 years and who each lost their fathers at a young age. I am not in this alone.
Yet, even with this incredible network of support, I was never truly grieving. It was hiding. As time passed, I thought it would get easier — recalling the advice I received after he died — but it was surface level. Deeper was the grief, deeper was the pain and loss and confusion. A spiral of feelings that cannot be controlled no matter your willpower or mental fortitude. It can hit like a drizzle or tear like a hurricane. But it will surface. Sometimes it feels like it may take you with it.
The feelings from such incredible loss don’t simply dissipate with time. Healing requires real work. That looks different for everyone, but I think the general trajectory is the same.
Sit and feel the emotions of deep loss with a professional and those close to you. Give yourself grace and time. But also push yourself and reflect on what the other side actually looks like — what “it gets easier” really means.
As I enter this next chapter of life, I couldn’t be more confident in the person I want to be for my son, family and community. But I must keep doing the work.
I’m no expert in healing — not even close. But I can say confidently now that while the pain never goes away, it does get easier if you do the work of actually grieving. Give someone you love an extra hug today and call them if you can’t.
Andy Nielsen, a Democrat, represents Indianapolis’ east side on the City-County Council.
This article originally appeared on Indianapolis Star: The grief advice I clung to after my dad died was missing something | Opinion
Reporting by Andy Nielsen, Opinion Contributor / Indianapolis Star
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By Andy Nielsen, Opinion Contributor | USA TODAY Network
