I don’t think I understood grief until I became a mom.

I knew what it meant to lose someone. I knew the emptiness that comes when someone you love is suddenly no longer there.

I lost my dad in 2019, and there are still moments when I forget for just a second that I can’t call him.

Then there are the moments when I remember all over again.

But motherhood changed the way I experienced that loss.

Because when you have children, you start seeing the world through their eyes. You watch them grow, discover who they are, reach milestones, and become little people with personalities completely their own.

And sometimes, I find myself wishing my dad could see it.

I wish he could know them the way I know them.

I wish he could hear their little stories, see their personalities, laugh at the things they do, and be there for the moments that feel too special not to share.

There are so many times I’ve thought, Dad would love this.

And those are the moments that catch me off guard.

Because motherhood is full of so much joy, but sometimes that joy reminds you of who isn’t here to experience it with you.

I think that’s one of the strangest things about grief.

You can be completely surrounded by love and still miss someone terribly.

You can be laughing with your children one minute and suddenly feel that ache in your chest the next.

You can be thankful beyond words for the life you’ve been given and still wish you could have one more conversation with the person you lost.

I’ve learned that these feelings don’t cancel each other out.

They can exist together.

I can love being a mom and miss my dad.

I can be happy and still grieve.

I can be incredibly grateful for today while wishing certain people were here to see it.

And maybe that’s what I’ve slowly come to understand about grief—it isn’t something I have to leave behind in order to move forward.

I get to carry it with me.

I carry my dad in the stories I tell.

In the memories that still make me laugh.

In the things he taught me.

In the parts of myself that remind me of him.

And, in some ways, I carry him into motherhood too.

I think about the kind of parent I want to be.

The kind of memories I want my children to have.

The little traditions I want to create.

The photographs I want to take.

The ordinary moments I want to remember because I know now just how quickly ordinary moments become the memories we would give anything to have back.

Losing my dad made me realize how precious those little things really are.

A messy kitchen.

A family dinner.

A sleepy child climbing into my bed.

A car ride filled with conversations.

A birthday candle.

A random Tuesday where nothing extraordinary happened at all.

Those are the things I want to hold onto.

Because someday, my children will be grown.

And I hope when they look back, they don’t remember whether everything was perfect.

I hope they remember that they were loved.

That they were safe.

That we laughed.

That our home was full of stories.

That their mom showed up, even when life was hard.

I hope they know that I was building a life for them while also learning how to live with the pieces of my own life that had changed forever.

Because that’s really what grief has taught me.

Life doesn’t stop because your heart breaks.

You keep going.

You keep loving.

You keep showing up.

And somehow, you begin building something beautiful around the empty spaces.

There will always be things I wish were different.

I wish my dad had more time.

I wish he could see the person I’ve become.

I wish he could watch me raise my children.

I wish I could tell him about the things I’m doing now and hear what he thinks.

But I can’t change what happened.

What I can do is keep living.

Keep loving my children fiercely.

Keep making memories.

Keep telling stories.

Keep taking the photographs.

Keep creating a life that is full of the kind of love I wish he could see.

And maybe that’s one of the ways we carry people with us after they’re gone.

Not by staying stuck in the moment we lost them, but by allowing the love they gave us to become part of the life we continue to build.

My children may never know my dad the way I did.

But they’ll know him through me.

Through the stories.

Through the photographs.

Through the little pieces of him that have made their way into our family.

And they’ll know that he was loved.

That matters to me.

Because grief isn’t the opposite of a full life.

It is simply one part of mine.

There is grief here.

But there is also so much love.

There is laughter.

There are little hands in mine.

There are dreams still waiting to happen.

There are memories we haven’t made yet.

And there is a whole life in front of us.

So I will keep building it.

For my children.

For myself.

And, in a small way, for the people I wish were still here to see it.

Because even after loss, there is still so much life left to live.

And I want to live mine fully.