This Father’s Day will be the second one without my dad. In February 2024, he passed away after a shocking and swift battle with cancer. It was less than three weeks from the time he started showing symptoms to the moment he was gone. Everything happened so quickly, it felt surreal.

More than a year later, I still reach for my phone to call him when I’m driving home. I think most people know the phrases “momma’s boy” and “daddy’s girl.” That’s exactly how it was in our family, my brother and I fit those roles perfectly.

Since losing him, I’ve had moments where I’ve been a complete mess, like sobbing through the movie Elemental, and moments where I completely forget he’s gone. I carry guilt for feeling happiness, even though I know that’s exactly what he would want for me.

I’ve started and stopped writing this blog post several times. I’d add words, delete them, overthink, overfeel. I’m lucky to have a team supporting me with therapy and medication. Recently, my therapist gave me an assignment: write a letter to my dad. It was the final step in a three-part exercise. Instead of writing a traditional blog post, I’m choosing to share that letter here.

Maybe it will resonate with you. Maybe it won’t. Either way, grief is deeply personal. It’s the perfect example of “one step forward, two steps back.” Sometimes, we have to put it in a box just to function. Other times, we need to sit in it and feel it all. However you process your grief, as long as it’s not harmful to you or others, is valid. Be patient with yourself. While I still have moments that bring me to my knees, I can honestly say, it does get better. There is life after loss. Give yourself grace.

Dad,

I’m so sorry for not being the daughter you deserved. I can already hear you, and everyone else, arguing with me over that statement. But it’s true. You deserved more of my time, my attention, my appreciation. I was careless because I thought we had more time. We always think we have more time. You were Superman. I never imagined you had kryptonite.

I think a lot about the divorce. I wonder how much weight you carried from it. More than anything, I hope you know I forgive you. You weren’t a perfect husband, but you were always a perfect dad. Your support never wavered. Your presence was constant. Even when we didn’t see you every day, I never doubted you would take care of us.

Any of the “bad” memories have faded into the background. What I remember now is you teaching me to ride a bike, going hunting, watching you and Nick play pool. I remember how you helped me throughout my life without ever making me feel ashamed for needing you. You didn’t expect anything in return. You just showed up.

You becoming a grandfather—Bampa—was no surprise. You were the greatest. Maybe that’s why I’ve had moments of anger, with you and with the universe. Watching you get sick and then losing you so fast felt like betrayal. But I forgive you, because I know you didn’t choose this. You were robbed of time, too.

I feel guilty when these hard feelings show up, because your life and the kind of dad you were deserve only love. Every single day, I hope you know how deeply loved you were. Still are. Saying “you are missed” doesn’t come close. There’s a hole in my world that will never go away; I just learn how to live around it.

I’m supposed to say goodbye at the end of this letter, but the only thing I’m willing to say goodbye to is the pain. I love you more than words can say, and my greatest hope is that you always knew that. Being your daughter was the privilege of a lifetime. And I would do it all over again, as long as you were my dad.

“And now, I’m glad I didn’t know
The way it all would end, the way it all would go
Our lives are better left to chance
I could have missed the pain, but
I’d have had to miss the dance”

I love you. I’ll see you later.