Dead Dad’s Club

Some days it creeps in without warning. Today I’m restless, but I don’t want to talk about it.

I made a healthy breakfast, hoping food might ground me. I did my yoga routine like muscle memory, trying to stretch the ache out of my body. Still, the restlessness clung to me, like static I couldn’t shake. So I walked through the neighborhood in the sweltering heat, hoping the sun might burn it off.

And then I saw them—fathers and their grown children. Laughing. Reuniting. Hugging over grills or front porches or Father’s Day brunch. And just like that, the weight returns. The reminder: I’m in the Dead Dad’s Club.

It doesn’t get easier. You just get better at walking with it. Smiling through it. Functioning around the hole that never really fills.

Grief isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s just a flicker—an empty chair at a table, a song on the radio, someone else’s joy that reminds you of your loss.

There’s no real way to escape your feelings. So instead, I let them visit. I let the ache pull up a chair. I let the grief talk while I sit in silence. I breathe through it, even when the air feels heavy. I cry if I need to. I let the memories wash over me, even the ones that sting.

Because I know from experience: if I let it pass through me, it won’t stay forever.

And I also know this one day, we’ll all be part of this club. Every single one of us. No one gets out untouched. That doesn’t make it easier, but it does make it human.

Maybe tomorrow will feel lighter. Or maybe it won’t. But either way, I’ll keep walking.