This profound but simple mantra from a wise psych Dr. echoes in my head the last few weeks: “Stop driving the car of grief.”

He’s right. My first Father’s Day without my father came and went last Sunday. This was the first time I didn’t send a card, make a call, send a gift, or talk on the phone etc. I didn’t do it because he’s no longer here to receive them. It was unexplainably odd and empty.

Last Sunday I saw all the other Father’s Day posts on social media. After viewing many of the tributes and others’ old photos, I just didn’t have to heart to follow suit. I felt in my spirit that had to be okay. I gave myself to permission to reflect silently and view pictures privately. Sometimes the more private, the more peace exists, at least this year anyway.

“Stop driving the car of grief.”

It makes me think how we compartmentalize grief, especially in American culture. We quantify our feelings and emotions and try to ‘solve’ everything on this formulated time table. But it doesn’t work because it doesn’t exist. We cannot control grief. In a healthy process of grief, we cry, we get up and move for the day’s tasks or sometimes we don’t move and go back to bed. Some days are good, some days are bad. Or sad. We at times want to talk to our friends and family; then other weeks we want to turn the phone off and shut down the laptop. It’s all okay. We are not driving this car of grief. We can’t. The heart will heal on its own time frame and often only after the mind has a fully accepted reality. They are separate yet work in tandem.

This Father’s Day, I kept busy with laundry and puttering around the home. I found scraps of candy wrappers and paper in my son’s shorts before I washed them. I was then hit with a brick of memory as I remember my Dad telling me he was ‘exactly like that as a boy.’ I smiled while my heart sank with longing.

That is grief: the uncomfortable feeling of joy and sadness all within the same heartbeat.

Dad, Happy Father’s Day. I miss you. I love you. And I thank you for being my Father.

{4:00 AM practices rain or snow, cheering me on at almost every single swim meet of my career, pictured above my very first swim meet at age 5. He was instrumental in introducing me to the love of film, great music, sports, the outdoors, animals…You gave me so much to pass on to my son.}

“We remember more all they’ve given us when we become parents; we remember it the most, when they’re gone.” – Christine Nor