“Grief does not change you…It reveals you.” – John Green

Today marks a year since my dad left this world. Only 18 days after it was confirmed that his cancer was back, he took his last breath.

My dad was a proud man. A broken man. A complicated man. Imperfect, loving, stubborn, stoic, and kind. Through all his brilliance and all his flaws, he was my Dad. I’m thankful I knew him, and sad I didn’t know all of him. I was privileged to take care of him his last five years, and equally burdened by the responsibility of it.

Sometimes, when I check into the deepest parts of my heart space, I feel the void left by him. There’s a strangeness knowing one of the two people who created me is no longer here. And along with relief that he is no longer suffering comes a sadness so profound it feels like my breath is being taking away.

This is what grief is like – a sucker punch you weren’t expecting, knocking you down when you least expect.

But grief also reminds me that I can get back up. That I have gotten back.

I know I can – and will – wake up tomorrow, put one foot in front of the other, and face the world and this life without the person/relationship/job/thing.

Life keeps reminding me that it is neither black or white, but different shades of gray. And my Dad’s life and death is no different. So I grieve and I celebrate and I exhale and I weep. And I keep living so I can honor the sacrifices he made and love he gave. Beautiful and messy. Not enough and maybe all there was to give.

[Photo: childhood friends of my Dad shared this photo after his passing; he is the third from the left.]