According to studies, nearly 2.5 million people die annually in the U.S. alone, leaving behind loved ones who are often ill-prepared to cope with the magnitude of loss. More than 30% of these survivors develop symptoms of prolonged grief disorder, struggling to move forward, haunted by the weight of the empty space left behind. I never thought I would become a part of this statistic.
My name is Sarah, and I’m 36. On a crisp autumn day two years ago, I received the phone call that shattered my life. It was a Tuesday afternoon, and I was sitting at my desk, immersed in the usual bustle of work, deadlines, and meetings. My phone rang, and I almost didn’t pick up. But something—maybe a slight tremor of intuition—told me to answer. I remember the exact words that came next, as if they were seared into my brain: “Your father has passed away.”
I didn’t understand them at first. My father was the strongest person I knew—this couldn’t be happening. I repeated the words to myself, trying to make sense of them, but they felt foreign, impossible. I dropped the phone. The weight of that moment sunk into me like a heavy stone, pulling me down into a chasm of disbelief and despair.
Grief, they say, comes in waves, but for me, it felt like a relentless tsunami that refused to retreat. My father wasn’t just my parent—he was my anchor, my guide, the person who always knew what to say when the world felt too overwhelming. Without him, I felt like I was floating aimlessly in a sea of sorrow, untethered and lost. Every morning, I would wake up hoping it had all been a bad dream, only to be met with the harsh reality that he was really gone.
At first, I tried to distract myself. I poured everything I had into work, thinking that if I could just keep busy, I wouldn’t have to face the hollow ache in my chest. But grief isn’t something you can outrun. It catches up with you, often when you least expect it. I would be standing in the grocery store, and a familiar song would start playing over the speakers, one my father used to hum on long car rides, and suddenly I’d find myself fighting back tears in the middle of the cereal aisle. Or I’d hear a joke that he would’ve laughed at, and instead of smiling, I’d be hit with the crushing realization that I’d never hear his laughter again.
Nights were the worst. The silence became deafening, and my thoughts turned dark. I kept replaying the last conversation I had with my father, agonizing over things left unsaid, moments we would never have again. Guilt crept in, whispering that I hadn’t done enough, hadn’t been there enough, hadn’t told him I loved him enough. These thoughts gnawed at me, amplifying my sorrow and pushing me deeper into a place I didn’t know how to escape from.
Friends tried to help. They would come over, offer their condolences, and tell me that “time heals all wounds.” I nodded politely, but inside, I wanted to scream. Time didn’t feel like it was healing anything. It felt like it was stretching my grief out indefinitely, making the pain even more unbearable. I would sit through dinners and conversations, trying to smile, but everything felt hollow. My world had lost its color, and I was living in a permanent state of gray.
Then came the dreams. At night, I would dream of my father—sometimes he was young and vibrant, laughing like he used to. Other times, he was just out of reach, standing far away in a foggy landscape, calling my name, but I could never get to him. I’d wake up in a cold sweat, my heart pounding, with a profound sense of emptiness that would take hours to shake off.
For a long time, I couldn’t even look at his belongings. His favorite chair sat empty in the corner of the living room, a constant reminder of the void he left behind. His jacket still hung by the door, as if he would walk in at any moment, and sometimes I would catch myself listening for the sound of his footsteps. The house felt like a tomb, filled with ghosts of memories I wasn’t ready to face.
Grief didn’t just affect me emotionally—it seeped into every aspect of my life. I started neglecting my health. Sleep became elusive, and when I did manage to rest, it was restless and filled with nightmares. I lost weight because eating felt like a chore, and I couldn’t bring myself to care about things that used to bring me joy. My relationships suffered, too. People didn’t know how to deal with my grief, and I didn’t know how to ask for help. I withdrew from the world, isolating myself because it felt easier than pretending to be okay.
I started missing work, making excuses, until eventually, I stopped showing up altogether. I didn’t have the energy to face the day, let alone be productive. My life was unraveling, and I couldn’t stop it. I felt like I was drowning in my own sorrow, unable to come up for air.
What made it worse was the expectation that I should be “over it” after a few months. People stopped asking how I was doing, assuming I had moved on, but I hadn’t. Grief isn’t something that has an expiration date. It lingers, sometimes in the background, sometimes at the forefront, but it’s always there, reminding you of what you’ve lost. And the more I tried to suppress it, the more it consumed me.
There were days when I questioned whether I would ever feel normal again. Would I ever laugh without feeling guilty? Would I ever stop waking up with a lump in my throat, dreading the day ahead? The future felt bleak, as if the best parts of my life had died along with my father, leaving me with nothing but a shell of who I used to be.
I avoided family gatherings because they felt too painful. My father had been the glue that held us all together, and without him, the dynamic had changed. Every holiday, every birthday, every significant moment felt incomplete. His absence was palpable, and I couldn’t bear the thought of facing it head-on. It was easier to stay away, to isolate myself in the hope that the numbness would protect me from the pain.
But grief doesn’t work like that. You can’t hide from it, no matter how hard you try. It follows you, a constant shadow, until you confront it. But at that time, I didn’t have the strength to do so. All I could do was survive each day, hoping that somehow, someway, the crushing weight of my loss would eventually lift.
It took me months to realize that my grief wasn’t something I could outrun or suppress. There wasn’t a way to avoid it; I had to face it head-on. The turning point came one evening, about a year after my father’s death. I was sitting in the living room, staring at the empty chair where he used to sit, feeling the weight of his absence. It was as if something broke inside of me—a dam holding back all the pain, all the sadness, all the questions. I finally let it all out, sobbing uncontrollably for what felt like hours. I hadn’t cried like that since the day I got the news.
That breakdown felt like a release. It was the first moment I allowed myself to truly feel the depth of my loss. Up until then, I had been holding everything in, trying to stay strong, but the truth was, I was falling apart. And in that moment, I realized that I didn’t have to keep holding on so tightly to the pain.
The next morning, I woke up feeling different. The sadness was still there, but there was also a small flicker of hope, like a spark deep inside me. I knew I had to do something. I couldn’t keep living the way I had been—numb, isolated, lost in a cycle of grief. But where do you start when your entire world has been shattered? How do you rebuild when you don’t know what the pieces even look like anymore?
I started with the smallest step. I reached out. That was the hardest part for me—admitting that I couldn’t do it alone. I sent a message to my closest friend, someone I hadn’t seen in months because I had pushed everyone away. I didn’t know what to say, so I just said, “I need help.” It was the most vulnerable I had been in a long time, and it terrified me. But the response was immediate: “I’m here for you.” Those words were the lifeline I didn’t know I needed.
From there, things didn’t magically get better, but I started taking steps. Small ones at first—leaving the house for a walk, going to the grocery store without breaking down. I started talking to people again, sharing bits and pieces of my grief, letting them into the parts of my life I had shut off. It wasn’t easy, and there were many days when I wanted to retreat back into my shell, but I pushed through. Slowly, I began to realize that the more I talked about my father, the more I kept him alive in a way. His memory wasn’t something to be avoided—it was something to be cherished.
Then, I made another significant decision: I sought professional help. Therapy wasn’t something I had considered before. I thought I could handle it on my own. But my grief was deeper than I had anticipated, and I needed guidance to navigate it. Finding a therapist who specialized in loss and grief was the second step in my healing journey. The sessions were difficult. Every week, I would walk into that room and open old wounds, discussing my father, our relationship, and the things I wished I could have said. But through that process, I learned that it’s okay to grieve, and more importantly, it’s okay to heal.
In those early sessions, I was introduced to something that would become a cornerstone of my healing: mindfulness. My therapist encouraged me to start small, just five minutes a day, focusing on my breath, being present in the moment, and allowing myself to feel whatever emotions arose without judgment. Those moments of stillness helped me reconnect with myself, to be kind to myself in a way I hadn’t been in months. For the first time, I allowed myself to grieve without guilt. I realized that grieving didn’t mean I had to be stuck in sorrow forever.
I also began journaling—a suggestion from my therapist that felt strange at first but soon became a way to process my emotions outside of therapy sessions. Every night before bed, I would write about my day, my feelings, and the memories I had of my father. The act of putting my thoughts on paper was cathartic. It helped me release emotions I didn’t even know I was holding onto. And through that, I found clarity—about my grief, about my father’s death, and about the person I was becoming.
Gradually, I started to reclaim my life. I began doing things that brought me joy, even if they felt strange at first. I went back to my favorite café, where my father and I used to meet for coffee, and instead of avoiding it, I embraced the memories we shared there. I started running again—something I had stopped because it reminded me too much of the days when my father would cheer me on at marathons. This time, I ran for him, carrying his memory with me instead of letting it hold me back.
But perhaps the most significant part of my healing journey came when I realized that it wasn’t just about surviving—it was about finding meaning again. I had spent so long in the shadow of grief that I had forgotten what it felt like to live fully. And that’s when I made the decision to honor my father’s memory by living the life he would have wanted for me—one filled with purpose, love, and joy.
It didn’t happen overnight. There were still hard days, days when the loss felt unbearable, but those moments became less frequent. And slowly, I began to see that grief wasn’t something I had to “get over.” It was something I had to learn to live with, something that would always be a part of me, but that didn’t have to define me.
The final piece of my healing came when I discovered the book Beyond Grief: Overcoming Loss and Embracing Renewal. I stumbled upon it while browsing online late one night when sleep wouldn’t come, and the title alone resonated deeply with me. I ordered it immediately, not knowing then how much it would change my life.
Beyond Grief didn’t just give me more tools to cope with my loss—it gave me a new perspective on life after grief. It helped me understand that healing doesn’t mean forgetting, but rather learning to carry our loved ones with us in a way that empowers us to live fully again. The book was filled with actionable steps, exercises, and real-life stories that mirrored my own, offering both comfort and direction. It encouraged me to embrace renewal, to see my father’s death not as the end of something but as the beginning of a new chapter in my life—a chapter where his memory guides me rather than holds me back.
If you’re struggling with grief, feeling lost and unsure of how to move forward, I highly recommend getting a copy of Beyond Grief: Overcoming Loss and Embracing Renewal. It’s available as a digital copy at Libriffy.com, and you can find the link in the description below. This book helped me find my way back to myself, and I believe it can help you too. Grief doesn’t have to be the end of your story—it can be the beginning of something new, something beautiful, something filled with hope.
I am an accomplished author and journalist at Fact Finders Company . With a passion for research and a talent for writing, I have contributed to numerous non-fiction titles that explore a wide range of topics, from current events, politics and history to science and technology. My work has been widely praised for its accuracy, clarity, and engaging style. Nice Reading here at Fact After Fact.
