Before I even started writing this, I second-guessed myself about a hundred times. I didn’t want this to come off like I was calling anyone out or dumping emotion onto the internet without thinking it through. I even had my best friend read it, and she told me to leave it as is. And the truth is, she’s right — the people who are involved in my life will read this, and the people who aren’t… well, they don’t read my blog anyway. But I also want to say this clearly: I miss my dad. A lot. I wish I understood what he’s thinking, or if he’s even thinking about this at all. Maybe there’s more going on in his heart than I know. Or maybe the harder truth is that it isn’t on his mind at all. I just wish he was involved in my life in some capacity — any capacity. I get the idea of “meeting people where they’re at,” but what do you do when where they’re at is nowhere near you?
I went back and forth about sharing this. The details, the honesty, the vulnerability — not because it wasn’t true, but because I never want anything I write to feel like an emotional dump or an attack. The people in these stories have their own truths, their own wounds, their own reasons I may never know. I questioned whether I should soften it, blur the edges, or keep it vague. But the reality is that this is my experience, and part of my healing is being honest about it. Not dramatic. Not cruel. Just honest. And if I’ve learned anything, it’s that silence doesn’t make grief smaller — it just makes you carry it alone.
Thanksgiving just happened, and (shocking no one) it delivered its usual emotional buffet: a little sweet, a little bitter, a little nostalgic, and a generous sprinkle of “oh fantastic, guess we’re doing this emotional excavation again.” I think that’s adulthood. Holidays stop being sparkly Hallmark moments and start being yearly checkpoints where you take inventory of who’s here, who’s missing, who’s changed, and what you still wish felt just a little bit different.
Today I’m sitting with a truth I’ve been avoiding for years: grief isn’t only reserved for the dead. Sometimes you grieve the living. You grieve the version of someone you remember, the relationship you hoped would evolve, the closeness you still catch yourself reaching for even though it hasn’t been there in a long time. I love my dad with my whole heart. So much of who I am is because he chose my mother and, with her, chose to raise children that weren’t biologically his. He didn’t have to, but he did, and I am grateful. And while I’m sure I added my share of chaos along the way (hello, childhood trauma starter pack), I’ve apologized for it. I’ve acknowledged it. And yet, here I am, realizing I’ve been grieving someone who’s still alive.
Everything shifted back in 2016. My biological father died in March. I met Nick in September. And that November ended up being the last calm holiday I ever had with my mom, my dad, my older sister, myself, and my girls. I didn’t know it was the end of an era, but in hindsight, the signs were there. After that, the dynamic changed. Dad worked through holidays. My older sister didn’t want to come home. I was trying to hold together a blended family while grieving the version of family I grew up with and the version I hoped to keep.
Life did bring something unexpected, though. I reconnected with my little sister, my biological father’s daughter, the one I hadn’t truly known since 1988. Our father’s passing brought us together as adults, and she has become this steady, surprising part of my present. And then there’s my older sister, the one who lived every messy chapter of childhood right beside me. She and I check in regularly, even if we don’t talk about our dad much anymore. Not because we’re avoiding it, but because she’s already found her peace and keeps reminding me that parents are only with us for part of our life—siblings are who we spend the majority of our years with. She’s right. My heart just hasn’t fully caught up yet.
All of this has been swirling around, especially as Nick and I have talked about how strange it is that we both have siblings from these separate, unlived lives. People connected to us in profound ways who will likely never meet each other. It’s like parallel universes of family that we belong to but never experienced. Strange. Sad. Comforting. Human.
I’ve done the work to try and bridge the gap with my dad. I’ve talked with elders who have actual wisdom and life experience. I’ve been open to suggestions, except showing up unannounced because we all know how that would go. I can practically hear the sigh and see the look, and honestly, I don’t have the emotional stamina for that kind of live-action disappointment. I’ve apologized. I’ve asked what I did wrong. I’ve created space for honesty, even painful honesty. I’ve reached out even when people told me I didn’t need to keep trying. And yet, the silence continues. It’s taken me a long time to understand that I can’t make someone choose me, I can’t force connection into existence, and I can’t keep grieving someone who is still alive but emotionally unreachable.
This morning, something clicked. This grief didn’t start recently. It began years ago, when my mom lost her clarity and I had to learn how to love a version of her who didn’t feel like her. When she finally came back, she was gone, and something in my dad went quiet with her. He has never held Evelyn, who is three. She will never know the Papa I knew or the tidal wave of love my mother would’ve drowned her in. That truth hit harder today than it ever has.
I keep circling back to something I heard once: “Grandparents who are active in the lives of their grandchildren never wanted to stop being parents. Grandparents who aren’t… never wanted to be parents in the first place.” It’s harsh, and it isn’t universally true, but today it stung because it felt uncomfortably close to my reality. Maybe raising me was part of loving my mother. Maybe when she died, that tie dissolved. Maybe I’m a reminder of things he’d rather leave buried. Or maybe, and this is the one that hurts the most, maybe he prefers his life without us in it. Silence is still an answer, and today I finally let myself hear it.
But even with that ache, here’s the part I’m choosing to hold onto: I am not alone. I have a husband who loves me through every version of myself, even the holiday-spiral edition. I have children who give me a sense of belonging. I have friends who have become family. I have a little sister who came back into my life at exactly the right time. And I have an older sister who grounds me and reminds me that family can look different but still be real.
So today, I’m choosing to set down the grief that isn’t mine to keep carrying. This isn’t about airing out family issues; it’s about acknowledging the grief of being unwanted by someone who is still alive. It’s the grief of trying and trying and realizing that effort isn’t the glue that keeps relationships together. And honestly? It all reminds me of that movie He’s Just Not That Into You. Because sometimes the truth is painfully simple: people aren’t indifferent because they secretly adore you. Sometimes… they’re just not that into you.
If you’ve ever had a relationship like this — one you grieved long before it was gone — I’d love to hear how you handled it. What helped you move forward? What gave you clarity? Your experience might help someone else reading this.
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