Missing You, Father

Missing You, Father

Holding On to the Heart That’s Gone

It has been nearly a year since you left us, Father. Yet, the emptiness you left behind feels as fresh as the day I heard the news. Sometimes, I catch myself reaching for the phone to call you, only to remember that your voice is now just a memory—one I cling to like a fragile thread, afraid it might slip away forever.

You were more than just a father to me. You were my guide, my protector, and my greatest teacher. Even though I was young, I always knew that your heart carried a quiet strength — the kind that doesn’t need loud words or grand gestures to be felt. You showed me love through small actions: a warm meal after a hard day, a firm but kind hand on my shoulder, stories told in your soft voice on chilly nights.

Losing you was like losing a part of myself. The world suddenly seemed colder, emptier, and a little less safe. How does one move forward when the person who once seemed invincible can be gone so suddenly? I don’t have an answer to that question. Instead, I’ve learned to live with the pain, holding on to the heart that’s gone, keeping it alive in memories and moments.

Your absence has taught me things I never wanted to learn so soon. It has taught me about grief, about the ache that never fully disappears but softens with time. It has taught me about the value of love and the importance of expressing it before it’s too late. And perhaps most of all, it has taught me about resilience—the strength to carry on even when it feels impossible.

I remember the last time I saw you clearly. You were sitting in your favorite chair by the window, watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of orange and pink. You smiled at me, that gentle smile that could calm any fear, and said, “No matter where life takes you, never forget who you are.” Those words have become my anchor.

Since you’ve been gone, I find myself talking to you in quiet moments. I tell you about my day, my dreams, and sometimes my fears. It feels foolish to some, but it comforts me to believe you’re still listening. Maybe, in some way, you are.

Your wisdom continues to guide me. Whenever I face a challenge or feel lost, I ask myself, “What would Father do?” I think about your patience, your courage, your kindness, and it gives me strength. I realize now that your legacy isn’t just in who you were but in who you helped me become.

I miss the simple things—your laugh, the sound of your footsteps, your voice calling me for dinner. But I also treasure the lessons you left behind. You taught me how to be honest, how to work hard, how to stand up for what’s right. You taught me to be compassionate, to listen more than I speak, and to never give up on the people I love.

Grief is a strange companion. It visits when I least expect it—a song on the radio, a familiar scent, a place we once went together. Sometimes, it overwhelms me, and I feel like I’m drowning in sorrow. But other times, it reminds me of how deeply I loved you and how deeply I was loved in return.

I have learned that holding on to the heart that’s gone doesn’t mean being stuck in sadness. It means carrying the love and lessons forward, living a life that would make you proud. It means honoring your memory by being kind, brave, and true.

There are days when the pain is sharpest, and the world seems unbearably lonely. On those days, I close my eyes and imagine your arms around me, steady and warm. I feel your presence in the wind, in the rustling leaves, and in the quiet moments before dawn. You may be gone from this world, but you will never be gone from my heart.

Missing you is a part of my journey now, but so is loving you—always, forever. The heart you gave me is a gift I will cherish until we meet again.

Thank you, Father, for everything. For your love, your guidance, your strength. For holding my hand when I was scared and cheering me on when I succeeded. For being the heart that will always beat inside me.

I hold on to you, Father. And in holding on, I find the courage to move forward.