What We Leave Unsaid: Grief, Love, and the Things That Still Need Saying

What do you do with the empty spaces left by death?

I’m working it out.

Five years ago, we got the call that there was nothing left to be done.
The strongest man I’ve ever known was spent.
The time was over.

Daddy.

You don’t understand the shock of it until it’s your turn.

We hear about sickness.
We send “thoughts and prayers.”
We say things we think sound comforting—
“God needed him more.”
“Everything happens for a reason.”
“He lived a long life.”

But here’s the truth:
It’s never long enough.

There is no such thing as too much time with the first man you ever loved.
No such thing as enough conversations with the man who loved you without conditions.

You want one more hug.
One more “Hello Miss Viv.”
One more dad joke—
“Wood eye! Wood eye!”

But let’s be real…
You want a hundred more.
A thousand more.
And even that wouldn’t feel like enough.

My dad was a good man.
That rare, steady kind whose genuineness lives in your bones long after they’re gone.

He held high expectations, but always made space for open conversations.
He made you want to be better—
smarter, stronger, wiser.
But mostly, he wanted you to keep learning, enjoy good food, love your partner, and show up for your kids.

We walked the Covid death ward together– me and my family.
We saw the machines.
The holy work of nurses.
The quiet.
The grief.

It was haunting.
And trust me…
you are never prepared.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about death.
Not about where our people go.
I’m certain they’re carried into something richer than we can imagine—
a deeper life, a fuller love, a spiritual resilience we cannot fathom.

I’ve been thinking about us, the ones left behind.
What we’re supposed to do with the love that has nowhere to land.
What we do with the regrets… the questions… the unspoken words.

I think about how I loved him, and if he felt it in all the ways I meant it.
Did I show him enough?

And then it hit me—
as a daughter, I longed to hear he was proud of me.
But as a father, he probably longed to hear the same.

He probably wanted me to tell him I was proud of him.
That I liked who he was.
That I saw his effort.
His work.
His leadership.
His love.

How did I miss that?

How was I so wrapped up in what I needed…
that I didn’t consider what he might’ve needed too?

That’s the part grief slices open—
the realization that we were both humans trying our best.
Both wanting love, affirmation, connection.
Both hoping the other person saw our heart.

I know I was blessed with an extraordinary dad.
Not everyone grows up with that kind of anchoring love.

But if you have something loving you haven’t said…
If there’s an apology sitting in your throat…
If there’s acknowledgment waiting to be spoken…
If there’s someone you miss but don’t know how to reach…

Please.
Don’t wait for the “right moment.”
Grief will show you there is no such thing.

Say the hard thing.
Say the loving thing.
Say the truth you’ve been holding.

Because here’s what I know—
what you need is the same thing they need.

When your person passes, they won’t be the one sitting with the regrets.
It will be you.
It will be the people left behind.

So if you’re a high achiever navigating loss…
If you’re trying to lead your life while grieving…
If you’re rebuilding your self worth and emotional resilience in the middle of heartbreak…

Start with the words you still need to say.
Start with the love that still needs to land.

It matters.
More than you think.

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