Grieving a Parent While Raising Kids
During the final months of my dad’s life, my husband, our two kids (including a toddler), and I took two cross-country trips to be close. During his final weeks in home hospice, I called every day. One early afternoon, I called and immediately noticed something off in my mom’s voice. It was a slight falter.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
“Not good,” she said. Then after a pause, “Dad died.”
And just like that, he was gone.
I don’t remember exactly what I said. I remember the physical feeling more than anything. The tears came quickly, and my body folded in on itself as I crouched down, covering my face while still holding the phone. I told my mom I was sorry, though I’m not sure what I meant by that. It was just the only thing I could think to say.
The Strange First Weeks
In the weeks that followed, I found myself moving through something that felt both familiar and completely new. I’ve lost people I love before, and I’ve learned that grief never really repeats itself in the same way.
With my dad, there was the expected sadness. The heavy feeling that his presence, that twinkle in his eye, was simply not here anymore. But there was something else layered in with it. A kind of sadness that carried frustration, and at times even anger. Not just for what I had lost, but for what I now knew would never happen.
Our Last Conversations
When he got sick, I tried to use our time together differently. I shared the things I appreciated about him while I still could, like how much I loved his music and how hearing him sing and play guitar are some of my happiest memories. I reminded him of our Yahtzee games and how those small traditions stayed with me. I told him I saw how hard he had worked. As a parent now, I understand more of what that must have taken. It mattered, and his support helped us grow and eventually build families of our own.
I also told him how much it meant to see the way he took care of my mom. He had written a will that made it clear she would be provided for. None of us kids would get anything after his passing, which I’ll admit quietly stung, but I understood what he was trying to do. Taking care of her was his priority. I promised him we would take care of her too, that she wouldn’t be alone in any of this, and that seemed to bring him real comfort.
My dad wasn’t much of a deep communicator, at least not with me. When I said these things, he would nod, smile a little, and say thank you. That was usually the extent of it.
Sometimes after I said something meaningful, I would pause and wait. I think I was hoping he might say something back. Maybe that he was sorry he hadn’t been more present. That he was proud of me, of the life I had built, of the kind of mother I had become. That feels a little embarrassing to admit, like I was still a little kid waiting to be told “good job”. But those words never came, and they never will.
At first, that felt like something unfinished. But I’ve come to understand that grief isn’t just about losing someone. It’s also about letting go of the moments you thought you might still have with them, the conversations you imagined, the way you hoped things would be.
And in this case, I can live with that. Communicating feelings wasn’t my dad’s way, but it was mine. Expressing that I appreciated his hard work and sacrifice was my way of showing love. He showed love through that same hard work and sacrifice, and not through the words I wished he’d say.
Who He Was, and What Shaped Him
The older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve tried to understand the shape of my dad’s life, not just the parts I experienced directly.
He was pulled into adulthood early. His girlfriend got pregnant when he was nineteen, and he only found out after he had already joined the army and been stationed in Texas. They sent him home to get married, and from there life moved quickly. He found work, had four kids, and took on responsibility that never quit.
The mouths to feed kept coming (I was mouth #5). The pain of the first marital breakup and its aftermath, especially with his four kids, still bled into his second marriage, and the hard work never seemed to end.
He worked for decades in jobs that demanded a lot from him physically, and there wasn’t much room left over. Not for rest, and not for parts of himself he didn’t quite get to develop. But there were glimpses of who he was underneath all of that. He laughed easily. He had a silly sense of humor. He was kind, and he was musical. There was a light in him that would shine through, even if it didn’t always stay.
Looking back, I think he wanted more out of life. But he made sure we were taken care of first, and in many ways that came at the expense of himself.
Dad didn’t have all the right tools to handle these challenges. He drank heavily for most of the time I lived at home. We never called him an alcoholic. In our family, he was a “heavy drinker,” which felt easier somehow, even if it didn’t really change anything.
He was a peaceful, good-hearted man, and he never hurt us. But he also wasn’t very present. Sometimes he stayed out late at the bar, stumbling home. But most days he drank right after work and after dinner he would just go down to the basement, and that’s where he stayed. I didn’t follow often, though sometimes I did, and those moments could be nice. We would watch the SciFi channel together, and it felt like connection. Still, I usually didn’t stay long. The smell of beer and the way his words would start to blur made it hard to sit there comfortably, so I would go back upstairs.
Dad stopped drinking in his late 50s, years after the last kid left home, and we all saw a real shift in him after that. He became more present, more engaged. He and my mom started making the long trip to visit me in Oregon, and once my daughter was born, those visits became annual. He also found faith again, which gave him a sense of purpose, though it created some distance between us as my own beliefs moved in a different direction.
Nevertheless, I always had a connection to my Dad. Much of my spirit, sense of humor, work ethic, and love of family come from him, and I’m grateful for that. He battled cancer with everything he had. Dad lost so much body weight and muscle during his aggressive rounds of chemotherapy, but he rarely complained. Whenever possible, he used his short bursts of energy to accomplish something. At first, that was something big, like getting out the tractor and moving the grass. Towards the end, it was something small, like making it to the restroom by himself. But I saw how frail he was, and how even that small human act was herculean, and it was both heartbreaking and inspiring to watch.
When It Starts to Feel Real
How does grief look when you can’t fall apart because someone needs breakfast? For me, it often looked like exhaustion. I kept going through the motions, never fully breaking down, and sometimes that helped because I didn’t feel much at all.
Other times, it hit in larger waves, often triggered by memories of my dad with my kids. My toddler son had always been drawn to him. He would light up when he saw him, smiling and giggling, reaching for him, wanting to be picked up. That didn’t change, even toward the end, when my dad was in hospice and no longer looked like himself. My daughter had her own bond with him too, built through visits and FaceTimes over the years. It stings to know they won’t have him in their lives as they grow.
My father-in-law passed away years ago. We have grandparent books on the kids’ bookshelf, and when I flip through the pages and see a cartoon Grandpa, my heart aches knowing my children will never have one again.
What complicated that grief was knowing there wasn’t much time to sit with it. Dad’s passing didn’t just leave an emotional void. It also left behind responsibilities that someone would need to pick up immediately.
Shades of Grief
If you’re grieving a parent while raising children of your own, you may recognize that tension between loss and responsibility. Life keeps demanding your attention, even when you wish you could put everything on pause. Grief is also unpredictable, showing up at inconvenient times, triggered by something small like a song or a routine. There’s also a certain isolation to it, especially as the world keeps moving and other people return to normal.
Even joy can feel complicated at first. My siblings and I talked a lot during Dad’s illness and after his passing. Sometimes we would start laughing so hard about something ridiculous that I wasn’t sure if it was “too soon.” But it also felt right in a way. Dad handled life with humor, and in some ways it felt like meeting him there.
At the same time, I noticed a lingering fear of forgetting. His voice, both speaking and singing, still feels clear. But I know from experience that clarity can fade. I’ve started thinking about ways to keep his memory close over time, like watching videos of him, making a playlist with his favorite tunes, and going on a SciFi binge to keep his passion alive.
Besides the expected parts of grief, I also experienced a lot of stress knowing that my Dad’s passing opened up the next chapter of caregiving needs for my Mom. Mom has been experiencing cognitive decline for some time, but Dad’s sickness seemed to accelerate it. She fully relied on Dad to take care of pretty much everything except the meals and cleaning. Retirement accounts, bill pay, house maintenance, etc., were all things she didn’t have interest in being a part of. If he could do it, she didn’t think about. She was not prepared to take on these responsibilities, which meant that was now going to fall on my younger brother and myself (my older siblings have a different mom). This transition happened immediately after my Dad’s passing, and meant grief was immediately mingled with stress.
What Stays
Losing a parent shifts something fundamental. What I’ve found is that your relationship with them doesn’t disappear but changes shape. It becomes something you carry forward in memories, in habits, and in the way you move through life.
My dad had an amazing spirit that I think got worn down early by being pushed into adulthood too soon. He had humor, kindness, and a musicality that never left him, even when life became heavy. He worked hard, often at the expense of himself, to make sure we were taken care of.
I want to honor that not only by remembering him, but by doing something with my own life that feels bigger than what he had space for. Carrying his spirit forward in my own way.
What comes next
As I mentioned, the care of my mother turned to my younger brother and me after my Dad’s passing. My brother has done an amazing job at taking on the bulk of the work helping my Mom sort through all of the paperwork that happens after a spouse dies. We’ve often met together to align on decisions and plan what comes next. For her, she insisted on moving immediately, which meant a lot of extra stress around selling a house a few months after his passing. Again, my brother’s help was immeasurable. Mom has chosen to move near me and my kids, which is partly why I let my brother handle so much. Once she’s near us, we will take on the bulk of the caregiving responsibilities in the months and years ahead. I’ve been preparing for that in different ways, like by creating a Parent Care Starter Kit, which you can download for free here.
I’ve also tried to work through my feelings through getting them out, whether that’s journaling, this blog post, or even voice memos on my phone that I can delete afterwards. The point is to try to process what I’m feeling so that I don’t let my thoughts and emotions drag me down, which doesn’t let me show up like I want for my other loved ones.
If there’s one thing I’ve come to understand through that processing, it’s that grief isn’t just about losing someone. It’s about learning to live with the space they leave behind. My dad and I loved each other in our own imperfect ways. Looking back, I can see that much of his love was expressed through hard work, sacrifice, and showing up however he could. As I step into this next season of helping care for my mom, I find myself carrying some of that love forward. In the end, that’s enough to guide me toward healing.
