Grief Has No End: On My Dad’s Birthday

Today my dad should be turning 79.

That sentence still feels strange to write, because it carries both celebration and absence in the same breath. It hurts and yet it hurts differently now. Nearly nine years have passed since he died, and while the ache hasn’t gone away, it has changed shape.

I was eight months pregnant with Rocco when my dad died. None of us had any warning. No preparation. No quiet goodbye. We woke up to a world where he was suddenly no longer there.

I walked into his bedroom with my daughter, who was 20 months old at the time. She was ready to jump onto her grandad’s bed to wake him up, full of toddler excitement and routine. Only he was never going to wake up.

I waddled in behind her and noticed his grey face. I will never forget that moment. The panic. The disbelief. Mum phoning the ambulance. Me trying to resuscitate him, my heavily pregnant body moving on instinct and hope rather than logic. But it was already too late.

From that moment on, our world changed.

It is never the same when someone you love leaves. And that is where grief begins — not as a phase or a process with a neat ending, but as something that stays. There is no end to grief.

What I find hardest now isn’t only the sadness. It’s that the stories aren’t new anymore. The memories are harder to reach. Sometimes I can’t remember how he sounded when he spoke. I miss his stories, his habits, his hugs. I miss the ordinary things that once felt guaranteed.

How did I cope with grief? If I’m honest, I got on.

I don’t think I gave myself time and I’m not sure I had the option to. Four weeks later my second baby was born. Soon after that, we moved six hours north to Edinburgh. Life kept happening at full speed, and I moved with it, carrying grief quietly in the background.

Grief, for me, has often felt like holding on and not letting go, because letting go would mean accepting what feels impossible to accept. It is beyond belief to suddenly realise you will never speak to someone again. The heartache of that understanding can be overwhelming.

But slowly  and not neatly we learn to live with it.

Some days are heavier than others. Certain moments still arrive without warning and hit hard. Yet as people still living, we are faced with a choice: to live, truly live, as fully as we can. And I know, without question, that this is what my dad would have wanted for me and for all of us.

He would be proud of my mum, who somehow has more energy than most people in their sixties. Proud of my brothers, who are determined, loving, and have created such beautiful families. And I hope I really hope — he would be proud of me too.

I wish he could see what I am trying to do. That I teach Pilates. That I am growing a business rooted in movement, strength, and helping others feel better in their bodies and their lives.

Dad, you should be 79 today.

We don’t think it’s fair that you’re not here. But we are also deeply lucky to have had you at all.

I miss you.