Love, unrealized
I spent the long Labor Day weekend in Miami with my family. It was the one-year anniversary of my dad’s death. He passed away just days before his birthday — he would have been 55. The trip wasn’t planned with this in mind, but it was special to be with family and share memories during this time. We did things together we knew he would have loved — biking through the streets of South Beach, watching the glowing shipyards in the evening from my brother’s 50th floor condo, jet-skiing with new friends we made on the beach.
After living through a summer with him that felt like it was never going to end, one year without him came so quickly. My world was so small and I was aching for the pain to be over. I lived in a microcosm of supporting my family and caring for my father — work was my escape. Returning to “life as usual” has been interesting. I’m learning how to talk about him in the past tense, and share the story of how knowing him and losing him has shaped the path of my life. I feel the need to tell people I’m good. Because truly, life is good. My heart is at peace. However, this peace doesn’t erase feelings and questions that arise in my mind — How do I move forward with joy but also deal with grief? How do I embrace emotions that seem like they belong in the past?
A colleague offered me a beautiful analogy while I was in the depths of figuring out how to manage my increasing responsibilities at work while processing the loss of my dad —
Grief is an inconsistent passenger.
Death is another thread in the fabric of our lives — there’s no fear to be had in facing it. What I’ve found though, is sadness. I think the hardest part is seeing the emotion that could have been. The love that could have been shared, the care that could have been shown. Loss leaves us with the knowledge of a capacity for love that once existed but is left unrealized.
My niece came into the world last week, the first baby in the family. I cried when I thought about how much dad would have adored meeting his first grandchild. You can debate the nuances of what life after death affords those who have left the earth, and say that grandpa Matt is looking down from heaven, but where does that leave us? Regardless of what life after death looks like, we’re here on earth without the sparkling eyes and big hugs of a loving dad who would have been an amazing grandpa.
This sadness inspires me to be generous with my love in whatever time I have left on the earth. The capacity we are given for loving and supporting others shouldn’t go untapped. Growing through the past year, I’ve found an increased depth of empathy with others I’ve never seen in myself before.
Without the love of God, I’d be a thriving Stoic or Nihilist. Emil Cioran says it so aptly in The Trouble with Being Born,
“What do you do from morning to night?”
“I endure myself.”
After death, we’re one with God — fully loved and fully known. Here on earth, we’re just dealing with ourselves. I don’t feel the need to ask myself when I’ll be done grieving or when the hurt will be gone. Accepting grief and facing emotion feels oddly normal. Summer has started to feel like a distant memory, and my appreciation for the time I was able to share with my dad only grows.
How do I go back to everyday life? Grief is everyday life. We’re constantly living in a loop of loss, desire and fulfillment. Oftentimes thriving, other times struggling. My heart gets tired at times, but replacing expectations with acceptance brings growth — which has no limit — and growth brings limitless joy.
