The Worst Day of My Life


One year ago, today, my father died.

I cannot even begin to express the utter sorrow, devastation, and grief I felt that day and continue to feel every single day since.

A piece of me is missing – I never realized how whole and complete I felt, until I was no longer felt whole and complete. I wish I could describe grief – describe the pain, the emptiness you feel in the center of your chest, how it just hurts – but everything sounds so cliched. The words doesn’t fit the situation, don’t really give the weight and the gravity of what death really is. How I actually feel – how my family feels – cannot be understood in writing, it can only be felt. And it’s not a feeling I would wish on anyone.

I wish I could say it gets better. Everyone told me “the first year is the hardest.” And honestly, I feel (and still feel) really cheated by those words. People still say “it will get easier,” but I really don’t know if it ever does. Because, for me, it stills feels like yesterday. It feels like it just happened.

I miss my father every day. I will always miss him. There will always be an empty place at our family gatherings – a laugh or a made-up song that should be there, but isn’t. I am acutely aware of those moments. I mourn their loss.

It’s still hard for me to accept that he’s really gone.


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