Navigating Grief: in Real Time
a sea of lit tealight candles
Friday, December 13th, I got the call no one wants to get—the call that changes everything. My Papa had passed away. I was absolutely in denial. I ended the call and immediately made arrangements to get back home as quickly as possible.
The drive felt like a blur. An hour later, pulling up to his complex felt surreal, like I was stepping into a space where time didn’t quite know how to move forward. I didn’t know what I was walking into.
When I arrived, my mom met me with a hug and asked my partner to keep our daughter in the car. My heart dropped—that meant Papa was still inside. Somehow, I was still holding it together. I followed my mom inside. To my right was a police officer (coincidentally) named Chantel, and to my left was the medical examiner.
I’ll spare you the details, but I was able to see Papa one last time and say goodbye, though he was long gone.
To say I miss him doesn’t even begin to cover it. Papa had a presence—one you could feel the second he walked into a room. His voice boomed, commanding attention. He was the kind of man who stayed to himself but loved his family deeply.
He’d tell you he didn’t like you, but the truth was, he loved you a thousand times more. That was Papa—a man of contradictions, humor, and undeniable love.
His absence feels even heavier…
Papa taught me how to fish, cooked the best greens and smoked the greatest ribs. Hearing “Gimme the beat, boys, and free my soul, I wanna get lost in your rock n’ roll…” at any given moment, reminds me of car rides with it blasting from his pickup truck that smelled like tackle boxes and a smoker pit.
I’ll never forget the memories we shared. I have a voicemail from him that makes me laugh and cry. Back in May, I had called him nonstop for two days without a response. When he finally called back, he left me this message:
"Hey baby, ain’t nothing wrong with me. This damn phone cut off, and I didn’t know until this morning. But everything is okay."
These days, I catch myself checking my phone, hoping for a voicemail just like that. But this time, there won’t be one. He’s really gone. And somehow, someway, I think I knew this was coming sooner than I imagined.
Some days, the grief hits like a tidal wave, and all I want to do is curl up in bed and cry until there’s nothing left. Other days, I feel the urge to clean—my car, the house, my purse. When I think of him, I hear his voice: “Go clean something.”
That was classic Papa. If I ever told him, “Papa, I’m bored,” he’d reply, “Nice to meet you, Bored. I’m your Papa. Why don’t you go clean something?” I can still see my younger self rolling my eyes at him and hear his laughter in response.
I also find myself thinking about the things he loved—fishing, music (especially Michael Jackson), westerns—books and novels, Chuck Norris, Steven Seagal, whiskey and Coke, and later, gin and tonic.
People often tell me, “Take care of yourself.” While I know they mean well, it can get exhausting. I understand that not everyone understands grief or knows what to say in the moment. But I do appreciate when people ask about Papa—what he liked, my favorite memory, or my funniest memory with him. Even if I can’t answer in the moment, those questions mean a lot to me. They give me a chance to sit with those memories.
Taking care of myself doesn’t always look like what others expect. Some days, it’s indulging in a distraction, like scrolling through social media (but not too much because that escape can get darker than my reality). Other days, it’s letting myself cry my eyes dry in bed.
I’ve learned that part of self-care is allowing myself to grieve however I need to in the moment. It’s about feeling my feelings, even when they’re hard.
Grief doesn’t get better, but it does get easier to cope with. Whether it’s 8 minutes, 8 days, 8 months, or 8 years later—if you feel like wailing for your loved one, do it.
Papa, you really did it this time. You will be missed more than words can say.
If you’re struggling with the loss of a loved one, know that you’re not alone. Help is available.
Crisis Text Line: Open 24/7. If talking feels overwhelming, you can text Home to 741-741 for immediate support.
National Mental Health Hotline: Confidential and staffed by trained professionals. Available 24/7 to offer support, connect you to grief counseling, or provide other free services. Call (866) 903-3787.
