Papa,
It has been twenty-one years, and I still feel your presence. Even now, I sometimes wake with the memory of your smile from my dreams, as if you slipped into my sleep just to remind me you are still with me.
But Papa, I feel like I am forgetting your face. Every photo connected to you is gone. As you know, I wrote to you eighteen years ago, complaining about the same thing — about how life could be so cruel, how the last tangible memory of you was taken away from me. The anger still rises in me at those who robbed me of that. Last night, my body carried the same pain again. And this time, it was heavier, sharper.
Papa, do you see me from heaven? Do you hear my cries? Today is your birthday, and I should be writing you a letter full of gratitude. I should be taking you out to dinner or driving us through the forest the way we used to. Instead, I am here with memories that slip through my hands like water.
And yet, I see you in me. In the way I look. In the way I think. In the way I process pain and love others deeply. It breaks me that I had to let you go so soon. Birthdays are supposed to be joyful, but for me, they are the heaviest days of the year.
Papa, a few days ago, I played a game with friends. The question was: “If you had one superpower, what would it be?” Without hesitation, I said: “To raise the dead back to life.” Maybe it sounds foolish, but I know you would understand.
Grandpa joined you in heaven recently. For the past twenty-two years, he and I often sat together, remembering you as a young boy, laughing and crying at the same stories again and again. Now, he is with you, and I am left here — with my thoughts, my grief, and my pen.
Papa, here is the truth: I study grief and loss for a living. I have spent over a decade learning the science of what sorrow does to the body, the nervous system, the spirit. I have taught others about grief. I have held space for survivors, sat with children who’ve lost parents, stood with communities torn apart by violence. And still, on days like today, I feel just as lost as anyone.
Maybe that’s what grief is about — not solving it, not outrunning it, but learning to live inside it, even when it feels unbearable. Maybe you would be proud of me, Papa, because today I am doing the hardest thing: writing my grief out loud, speaking it where the world can hear.
The worst day for me is your birthday. Not because I don’t want to celebrate you, but because every year it reminds me of what I’ve lost and can never have again. My memory gives me glimpses of your smile in dreams. My body aches with flashbacks of moments that were stolen too soon. And still, I write. Still, I love. Still, I miss you.
Papa, I ask you to watch over me. Say hi to Grandpa and Mama for me. Hold me in the places I still feel like a child, lost without you. And know that no matter how much time passes, the pain is still raw, still real, still alive in me — because my love for you is just as alive.
Writing this letter to my father reminds me that grief is not something we “outgrow” or “get over.” Even after twenty-one years, my body remembers, my dreams remember, and my heart still longs for what was taken. And I know I am not the only one.
Closing Reflection
Writing this letter to my father reminds me that grief is not something we “outgrow” or “get over.” Even after twenty-one years, my body remembers, my dreams remember, and my heart still longs for what was taken. And I know I am not the only one.
If you’ve ever lost someone, you may know what I mean. Birthdays, anniversaries, holidays — they have a way of reopening the wound. Some days it feels softer, other days it feels raw all over again. That’s the nature of grief: it ebbs, it flows, and it never truly disappears.
As someone who has studied grief and walked alongside others in loss for over a decade, I can say this with certainty: the ache you carry is not weakness. It is love. Grief is the echo of a bond that even death cannot sever.
So today, as I share my own letter, I invite you to reflect:
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Who would you write a letter to?
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What would you say if you could sit across from them, even for just a moment?
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What memories still live in your body, your dreams, your everyday life?
Take a few minutes to write it down, even if no one else will ever see it. Sometimes, the act of writing is enough to remind us that our grief has a voice — and it deserves to be heard.
Papa, if you can hear me, I will keep writing. I will keep speaking. And I will keep creating spaces where grief doesn’t have to stay hidden. Because even though time keeps moving forward, love keeps me connected to you. And that love will never fade.
With all my heart,
Your daughter,
Epiphany
