When you hear the word grief, you automatically think sadness, and that is true, but there is more to it than that. My name is Naidelin, and I lost my father on July 26, 2025. The days leading up to his passing, I kept having a strong fear of death itself. It felt sudden and random, like it could happen to anyone at any moment, even to me. Looking back now, those thoughts feel like a mix of anxiety and intuition, as if my body sensed something coming before I understood it.
Three days before my dad passed away, he began experiencing severe stomach pain. He went to the emergency room because he would not stop throwing up. The doctors told him it was gastritis and sent him home—even though he himself did not want to leave because he knew something felt wrong. In the days leading up to his death, he did not want to eat or drink anything. He had no energy, constant diarrhea, and looked extremely dehydrated. On the day he passed, he kept losing his balance and falling. There was also a strange odor coming from his body that I had never smelled before. At the time, we did not understand what was happening, but now I know his body was shutting down.
The morning my father passed, everything felt bright and quiet, almost like the calm before the storm. I had slept well, one of the best nights of sleep I had had in a long time. When I woke up, I came out into the hallway, and I saw him trying to walk to the restroom. He fell again. I had never seen him like that before. He looked completely out of it, like his soul was no longer there, yet he kept pushing through and trying to be strong.
I helped him up, but shortly after, I heard him fall again. When I opened the door, I called my sister. His last words were “me caí,” which means “I fell.” My sister and I picked him up—me from behind and her from the front—and we both started crying. He wanted to sit down in the hallway, so we let him. My sister asked me to check if he was breathing. I felt his pulse slowly disappear. We laid him down, and I called the ambulance. The dispatcher told us to begin CPR. Even though it felt impossible, we followed their instructions. When the paramedics arrived, they moved him into the living room and continued CPR using a device. They kept saying he had a heartbeat but no pulse. Eventually, they told us he had passed away from a heart attack.
At the time, it was only my older sister, my younger sister, and me at home. Everyone else was at work. My younger sister made phone calls to my mom, my other sisters, and my uncles. When they arrived, they saw my dad on the floor and began crying. When my mom came home, she thought he was still alive because his eyes were open. She was in denial, which is understandable. Even I felt disbelief, almost like a calm shock. In my heart, I believed my dad was going to push through and be taken to the hospital, and that everything would be okay. When he passed, it felt unreal, like everything had suddenly changed. I questioned my faith and felt like God did not hear my prayers.
I come from a family where, when someone passes away, people flock to the home to pay their respects, followed by prayers for an entire month. People were constantly in and out of our house, staying overnight with little sleep. Although this was meant to provide support, it overwhelmed me. At times, it felt like my sisters and I were not allowed to grieve our father privately. During this time, I kept thinking, “Did I get good sleep the night before because God knew I wasn’t going to get any for the next couple of months?” But I also questioned why God did not answer my prayers when I begged Him not to take my dad.
Losing my father has caused me to experience severe depression and anxiety. Still, I am able to continue living my daily life. I wake up, go out, and function, even while carrying this pain with me. My grief has changed over time. I do not cry as much as I once did, and I no longer feel trapped in a constant bubble of sadness. Grief is still there, but I am learning how to live with it.
My dad was the type of person who could light up a room without trying. At family gatherings, he would start dancing, making all the young adults laugh. He was also the parent who supported anything you wanted to do in life, even if it was not the “right” thing, as long as you were happy. Even though we did not talk every day, we were always close. We watched soccer games and MMA fights together, and sometimes I would hug him for no reason. A month before he passed, I surprised him with a Mexico soccer jersey he had wanted for a long time. If there is one thing I wish I had done differently, it’s telling him that I loved him more.
Now, when grief shows up unexpectedly, music helps me cope. I need it loud in my ears. It gives me a sense of release and reminds me that even though my dad is gone, I am still here, learning how to carry both love and loss at the same time.
“One by One, the Lights Go Out” by Kausik Datta captures the up-and-down feeling of grief when he writes, “One by one, the lights go out, but they still glow behind your eyelids.” That line shows how even in darkness, memories remain. Even when someone is gone physically, they continue to exist through moments, thoughts, and memories that still light up our minds.
When you lose someone, you begin to rethink your entire life journey. You question whether you want to continue on the path you’re already on or start something completely new, and that feeling is normal. Say you lose someone who was a provider, you may feel pressure to step up and get a job. If you lose a parent, you might feel like you need to take charge in ways you never expected. Losing someone opens paths we never planned to take. At first, that feels terrifying, like you’ll never be capable of handling it, but over time, it becomes easier. I try to remind myself that my dad would be proud of anything I do with my life.
Losing my dad hurt because he was no longer with me physically, but I remind myself that a soul is infinite. Our bodies are only the vehicles that carry who we truly are. When I think of my dad now, I feel a light energy. I still remember him as he was physically, but I also imagine an almost angelic presence around him—smiling, happy, and finally at peace.
I believe that the people we lose are still with us in a way we can’t see, as if they exist behind a thin layer. When you feel alone, you can talk to them. Even if it feels like no one is listening, they are.
After my dad passed, I struggled with my beliefs. I felt angry at God or any higher power because I prayed for my dad to live, and he still passed away. At the same time, I began to think that maybe the only way my dad would stop hurting was for God to take him home. Susan David, in her TED Talk: “The Gift and Power of Emotional Courage,” says, “We own our stories, so that our stories don’t own us.” That line resonated with me because grief forced me to face my feelings instead of pushing them away or pretending I was okay.
Grief itself is complicated. It isn’t just sadness—it is fear, anger, guilt, love, disbelief, and longing all at once. When you are grieving, you think constantly about life and death. You question when it will be your turn, when it was their turn, and why things happen the way they do. It can be a terrifying experience because it changes how you see the world and how you live in it.
Grief never truly disappears, but it transforms. Over time, it becomes softer, lighter, and easier to carry.
Learning to live with grief does not mean forgetting the person you lost. It means learning how to live with their memory instead of their presence. It’s okay to laugh again, to go out with friends, and to enjoy life. That doesn’t mean you’ve stopped caring; it means you’re healing. Healing doesn’t erase love—it honors it. Joy and pain can exist at the same time, even when it feels confusing or wrong at first.
Returning to old routines or finding comfort in new ones can feel strange, especially the first time you notice yourself enjoying something again. But that does not mean you are moving on; it means you are moving forward. You are carrying the love and lessons of the person you lost with you. One of the most powerful realizations grief brings is understanding that opening yourself up again doesn’t replace who you lost. It allows their memory to inspire you to love more deeply, appreciate more fully, and live more bravely.
You still deserve to chase your dreams, laugh until your stomach hurts, and find meaning in new beginnings. The person you lost would want that for you. They would want to see you smile again. So take things day by day, moment by moment, and know that it is okay to be okay again.
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