Grief and Gratitude

As I grieve the loss of my Dad this week, I find myself feeling raw gratitude. I count myself very lucky to have had a wonderful Dad. Not a perfect Dad—but he was often my safe place as a child. As he lay sideways on the sofa, behind his bent knees, cuddled up safe and cosy where I fit like a glove—was my favourite spot.

This is my first experience of personal grief. I’ve had loved ones close to me lose a parent, sibling, or partner. I’ve experienced the tragic, untimely loss of dear friends. But this is the first time I’ve lost a close blood relative. Again, I feel extremely grateful to have reached my 50s before having to experience this.

It wasn’t a shock. My Dad had struggled with dementia for many years, and in some ways, this is a relief for my family. He had a good life—filled, for the most part, with love and laughter. We had been preparing for this for a while. It was time.

I’ve often wondered what it would be like and how I would manage when it happened to me—hopeful that I would be fine. I didn’t think I had time to stop and do this grief thing. Of course, it happened during a busy week. I had workshops booked and events to attend. “I’ll be fine,” I thought.

The following day, I decided to still attend an ACEs event I had previously committed to, albeit briefly. I only had to talk for ten minutes. It wasn’t the talking that was the issue—it was the people. Their kindness. Those who knew were full of compassion. But that compassion almost undid the protective shell I had worked so hard to create. I found it painful to make small talk with strangers, opting instead to sit in a quiet corner, away from everyone. I only really spoke to those I knew. I did my ten minute talk. It was harder than expected. Everything feels raw. Everything has more emotional intensity. I could hear the emotion in my voice. I got through it, but when I was done, I had to go. Who was I kidding? This roller coaster was coming straight for me, and I had to buckle up.

Workshops have had to be postponed. Holidays may need to be cancelled. I don’t want to, but I may have to. Grief doesn’t wait until it’s convenient. I’m learning that it’s a physical thing as much as anything. I feel it in my bones. My brain isn’t functioning properly, and I’m easily distracted. Irritable.

I spent time by the sea yesterday, in the sun, swinging in my chair. It was bliss. We took a long drive along the coast. Spending time with others in my family who are going through this with us. The words self-care have never made more sense than now. It’s doing these things that helps me find some capacity to connect to my daughters, who are looking to me for comfort. I couldn’t give it. I didn’t have anything to give. But with enough self-care for myself, I found I was able to sit and play a game or cuddle on the sofa and be engaged.

The funeral brought a huge amount of comfort. The process of planning it, talking about his life, regaling all our happy memories. I feel we did him proud especially with piper piped in the coffin and the wee dram of whisky sitting on his coffin, drank at the end by my brother with a ‘cheers to you Dad’. I beamed with pride as my Daughter read out a wonderful poem that she had written about her and he sisters memories of their Granda.

As I go through this they are watching me. Learning from me. So I have to try and be kind to myself—for them as I buckle up to ride this wave and navigate this new and raw grieving experience.

I imagine in will ebb and flow. Some days it will crash over me unexpectedly, and other days it may gently lap at my feet. I’m trying to learn to let it be what it is, without rushing it or pushing it away. There’s no tidy way to grieve, no checklist to tick off. It’s not convenient , it can’t be scheduled. Just one breath at a time.

And in the quiet moments, I find myself thinking of my Dad—his laugh, his warmth, his stories, and that spot behind his knees on the sofa that made me feel so safe. That feeling stays with me. It’s what I want to pass on to my girls. Not perfection, but presence. Not always knowing the answers, but showing up anyway.

So for now, I’ll keep swinging in my chair, taking long drives, and holding my people close. I’ll cry when I need to, rest when I can, and remember always—with raw, aching, beautiful gratitude.

Thanks Dad x