Losing a Parent: The Grief That Never Leaves

This blog entry is deeply personal. It’s one I’ve thought about doing for a long time, but honestly—it’s hard. Because today, I’m discussing the loss of a parent... and what it feels like to lose someone who shaped you, protected you, and stood beside you—your whole life. 

My dad passed away from cancer when he was just 67. He was healthy in so many ways—active, vibrant, full of life—but cancer doesn’t care about any of that. And even though it’s been 15 years… it still hurts. Every single day.

People talk about how time heals all wounds, but I think those of us who’ve experienced deep loss know: that’s not entirely true. The pain changes, but it never really goes away. You learn to live around it. You learn to carry it. But it’s always there.

I was an adult when my dad died, and still—I felt like an orphan. I recently made a comment on a video someone posted on social media about just that. That no matter our age, when we lose a parent, it feels as though we are orphaned. I have had so many people like that comment and respond to it. That shows me I am not the only one who feels that way, and it signifies the extreme loss we feel when a parent dies. Because when you lose someone who was an intricate, irreplaceable part of your life, you’re never the same. You lose your anchor. And for me, that anchor was my dad.

My dad was… exceptional. He climbed to the top of Mount Rainier. He set state track records in high school. He was so good at golf he could’ve gone pro. He was a big partier in college, the kind of person everyone knew and loved—people said he was the most popular guy on campus. He had an exceptional career in business and was extremely well-respected. He made a tremendous impact on the world. But to me? He was Dad. 

He shaped how I show up in the world—especially in my work. He took care of people. He was kind, loyal, a strong leader. That’s the kind of person I strive to be every day. I carry him with me, in how I lead, how I care, how I show up for others.

Growing up, it was always the four of us: my dad, my mom, my brother, and me. We moved around a lot for my dad’s job, and because of that, we became each other’s constant. We didn’t have a hometown—we had each other. And when he died, it shook our foundation. My mom, my brother, and I all felt that loss so deeply- and we continue to do so every day. 

And then there’s my kids. My dad was their best friend, their father figure. When he died, they lost more than a grandparent. They lost the man who filled a gap their own dad didn’t fill. 

I still cry. I cry a lot. Sometimes I feel stuck, because I am lonely for him. And there’s this hole in my heart that I know will never fully heal. 

If you’ve lost a parent, you know how hard it is. The world keeps turning, people expect you to move on, but inside—your world feels forever changed. You can still function, still love, still laugh. But you carry them with you, and sometimes, that weight gets heavy. Whether your loss was recent or decades ago, your grief is valid. Your love is valid. And you’re not alone in how you feel. I have no answers in how to get through this loss. As I said, I still struggle a lot. However, one of the things that helps me is to talk about my dad and hear stories about him- especially ones that my uncle tells about his older brother or the ones my brother tells me about trips that he took with our dad to the boundary waters of northern Minnesota. No matter how much time passes or how many times I hear the same story, the discussions make me happy. Maybe those kinds of things help you too.

I want to remind you that grief doesn’t follow a timeline—and it doesn’t look the same for everyone. Whether your loss is fresh or decades old, whether your relationship was beautiful, complicated, or somewhere in between, your feelings are valid. You’re not alone in this journey. And if today’s conversation brought up memories, emotions, or even a sense of comfort, I hope you’ll carry that with you. Remember to give yourself grace. Healing isn’t about forgetting—it’s about learning how to live with the love that remains. 

Until next time, take care of you.