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It’s been about four years since my father died. I’ve always felt a little strange about how I’ve handled it. I see people who lose a parent and carry that heavy, day‑to‑day ache for years. They post about barely being able to get through holidays, birthdays and other events. I never felt that. I think of my dad often, but not with that deep longing people describe. For a while, I honestly wondered if something in me was off, wrong, broken. I even asked my therapist about it (she laughed at me – you had to be there – quite appropriate!)
But lately I’ve realized I do miss him—just not in the traditional ways. My grief didn’t show up as sadness. It showed up in the things I quietly stopped doing.
Here are the ways I miss him.
Golf
I didn’t stop golfing because I stopped liking it. I stopped because I lost the person I shared it with.
We lived six hours apart, but talking through our rounds—sometimes literally shot for shot—was one of the great joys of my life. I never beat him. At my best, I might’ve been better technically, but he always found a way to win. He was a master of mind games, and I choked more than I care to admit.
I did get a hole‑in‑one before he did, and he was standing right there when it happened. That was a win. He eventually got five; I still have the one.
Once he slowed down, I did too. After he died, I basically quit. I’ve played once in four years. I miss the game, but honestly, I miss calling him afterward even more.
Fishing
We didn’t fish together much after I was a kid. Most of that happened in Canada at my grandparents’ place. But when I moved to Tennessee, I found it again. I’d call him and tell him about the fish I caught. He never understood why I released them instead of frying them up.
For me, it was the quiet. The calm. The sudden burst of action. And then telling him about it.
After he died, that part faded. I didn’t understand why until recently.
Drinking
My dad could drink. Looking back, he was probably a functional alcoholic—like a lot of his generation. Scotch, gin and tonics, martinis (always gin), bourbon. Beer and wine were side characters.
Trips to the liquor store were practically a family tradition. My grandparents and uncles would smuggle liquor across state lines in giant L.L. Bean bags because the taxes were lower in D.C. than in Pennsylvania. Completely normal to us.
As an adult, I leaned toward Scotch and Guinness. We could talk forever about distilleries, peat levels, obscure bottles. Fancy Scotch was the perfect gift for him.
Now my collection grows because people give me bottles, but I barely drink. I’ll have one at a work event so others feel comfortable, but that’s about it. The ritual isn’t the same without him.
Gas Prices and Drive Times
This one is oddly specific, but it’s real.
I paid $2.01 per gallon today. That felt good to type.
My dad and I must’ve had a thousand conversations about gas prices. Best price, worst price, why Tennessee was cheaper than Virginia and both were cheaper than Maryland. We also compared drive times like it was a competitive sport. I once made the 397‑mile trip to their house in 5 hours and 20 minutes. They usually took eight.
No one else cares about this stuff. He did.
Football
Especially Penn State football. We were both alums. I still follow the team, but I don’t know the roster anymore. I don’t watch as much. Same with the Commanders.
Hockey and baseball? I still follow those closely. He never cared about them, so my enjoyment didn’t depend on our conversations.
But football did.
The Couch
My mom is moving soon. I didn’t grow up in the house she and my dad moved to on Smith Mountain Lake—they bought it after I’d already left D.C. and settled in Tennessee. So I don’t have much attachment to the place.
Except the couch.
She’s not taking it with her—nor should she. It’s old. I think it came from our old house and might be 30 years old. But it was where my dad sat. Always. Unless it was a sit‑down meal (which were pretty infrequent), he was in that same corner every time. The left side—his left, our right—newspaper folded for the crossword, a Sudoku book nearby, TV on, just… there. That was his spot.
Even now, almost four years later, no one sits in that spot. I automatically take the opposite corner. And the funny thing is, I have my own “spot” at my house too. Mine’s a recliner. Even the cats know it’s mine.
But that couch is going away. And for some reason, that hits me harder than almost anything else.
What I’m Seeing Now
I’m not going to post about his “heavenly birthday” on Facebook—he’d laugh at that—but the truth is this: the way I live my life changed after he died. The things I enjoyed most were tied to him in ways I didn’t fully understand.
I cut off parts of myself to avoid the pain of missing him. Only now am I starting to see it.
And I think I owe it to both of us to reclaim some of those things. He wouldn’t want me to stop golfing or fishing or following our teams. He’d want me to keep going. I’d want my kids to do the same.
I may even let someone use my seat.
I miss you, Dad.
Author’s Note
This isn’t my usual topic, but it’s something I’ve been thinking about lately. If you’ve lost someone and found your grief showing up in unexpected places, maybe this helps you name it.
A Question for You
What’s one small ritual or hobby that changed after you lost someone—and what would it look like to revisit it?
This was a beautiful post. My father has been gone eight years, and I handled it pretty much the same way you did. I’m not sure there is anything I stopped doing/enjoying after he passed, but I have recently started painting — which he loved to do after he retired.
Thank you, Diane. Painting sounds like a great way to honor his memory.
Our parents shape who we become in so many ways. I lost my dad suddenly 21 years ago (in a tragic body surfing accident in Ocean City) so he just suddenly wasn’t there while my siblings and I were all busy raising young families. I didn’t have (of make) much time for grieving really but I learned that grief finds a way of showing up, uninvited, and can really bowl you over! I hope you can find your way back to some of the things you put aside because they were/are too painful. Pieces of him live on in you so perhaps recultivating those shared passions can serve to honor his memory. Peace to you and your family.
John, I can’t imagine how hard that was for you and the family. Grief is so funny, how it hides and then manifests. And it’s different for each of us every time. I am goi g to try to reconnect to some of these things – I think you have it right!