“Time heals”—a phrase I’ve come across countless times, in books, in films, and in the comforting words of well-meaning people trying to ease the burden of grief. It’s always said with warmth, a gentle offering of hope. But it’s been two years and seven months since I lost my father, and the ache hasn’t left. There’s still a weight in my chest, a tightness in my throat—as if even my breath has forgotten how to move.
I no longer feel like the person I once was. My thoughts, my reactions, my very emotions—they all feel unfamiliar. Each day, I try to understand and accept this new version of myself that’s slowly taken shape since that day.
I was there when my father took his final breath. The doctors rushed in, and I was asked to step outside. My heart pounded so loudly, it drowned out everything else. I couldn’t hold back the tears. I stood outside the ICU doors, overwhelmed, crying while the medical staff moved briskly around me. I noticed patients looking at me, and for a moment, I wanted to stop crying—for them. I didn’t want my pain to cast fear over their hope. I felt guilty, but I simply couldn’t stop. It’s strange how, even in moments of shattering grief, the mind drifts to thoughts that seem irrational—yet make perfect sense in that moment.
I felt utterly lost. Alone in a way I had never felt before. And now, writing this, that same wave of pain, fear, and loss crashes over me again. I never spoke about it. Not because I didn’t want to—but because I never knew how to put it into words.
When the doctors finally came out and told me he was gone, I walked back into the room. There he was—still, serene, majestic. I held his hand. It felt cold. There was a sudden, almost instinctive urge to capture that moment—a photo of our hands together one last time. His, turning blue. Mine, still warm. I can still feel that touch. The tears didn’t stop. I kissed his hand, whispered my goodbye, and lingered beside him, not ready to leave. A part of me wanted to stay there forever.
Everything happened so quickly. I returned home to my mother. She sat silently on the bed, staring through the glass doors, sensing—without being told—that something had changed. I walked up to her, embraced her, and softly said, “Papa is no more.”
In that instant, something inside me shifted. I became someone new—someone I didn’t recognize, yet felt deeply familiar. It’s hard to explain. A contradiction that still lives within me. One that has stayed ever since.
He may have left the room, but he’s never left my heart. I carry him in every version of me that follows. I never found the words—until now. And maybe that’s the beginning of healing, not forgetting.