Grief During Uncertain Times
My dad was smart, truly smart. I’ve never met anyone quite like him. My mom and I always say he missed his calling as a lawyer or doctor. Intelligence and curiosity were constants in his home, and he didn’t just dabble when he wanted to learn something new. He studied. He mastered it. After he passed, while cleaning out his apartment, I found binder after binder, notebook after notebook, filled with his handwriting. Pages of research on fishing; every detail about jigs, lures, and the differences between fresh and saltwater. Notes on HVAC systems, plumbing, and little tricks he picked up along the way. He treated knowledge like treasure, carefully collected and preserved.
Growing up, academics were always a priority for him, especially science and math. I remember one trip to Barnes & Noble, when I wasn’t interested in any of the books in the children’s section. He steered me to another aisle, where the shelves were stacked with textbooks. He picked out a science book overflowing with information - physics, astronomy, chemistry - like he was handing me a key to the universe. Even before I started first grade, he had me working through math workbooks, checking them, grading them as if it were homework.
He was never harsh with me, even when I’d cry, tantrum, or resist. He was soft, patient, and endlessly encouraging. I can still picture my first day of preschool; me with my tiny backpack, my mom in tears, and my dad crouching down to hug me. He whispered that I should aim to be the very best in my class. To this day, my mom and I still laugh and cry about that moment.
Lately, I’ve been missing him deeply. Tonight in the shower, I found myself remembering how much he valued knowledge; he was a true “knowledge is power” kind of man. And maybe that’s what feels so absent in the world today: the hunger to learn, not just skim the surface, but to dig deep, question, and really understand. My dad believed in that kind of learning, the kind that shapes how you see the world.
These days, I’ve been scared. Scared that the world is unraveling, that division is carving deeper wounds than can ever be healed. I think back to when I was 13, hearing my dad say, “Poetry, the government needs control. They create problems and hysteria on purpose; it’s a way to control the masses.” Back then, I didn’t really get it. Now, I do. I see it happening before my eyes. And that terrifies me.
When fear creeps in, grief hits the hardest. I wonder what my dad would say if he were here. What advice would he give? Sometimes, I can almost hear his voice guiding me, but before I can hold onto it, it slips away. He feels so close and yet impossibly far. People used to say how lucky I was, that my dad would always be with me. But in moments like this, I search and search, and all I find is silence. Just a void. Just absence.
What no one tells you is that grief doesn’t just sting in the beginning; it slams into you hardest when life feels unstable, when the world is uncertain. It’s like a freight train you never saw coming, like a sucker punch to the gut. In those moments, I wish I could hear him say, “It’s okay, Poetry. You’ll be alright.” Or give me direction. Tell me what to do next. Sometimes I imagine the words he might use: “The world needs your voice. It needs healing.” Or maybe, “Pack your bags, it’s about to get real.” Or even, “Let’s leave for a while; we’ll come back when the dust settles.” But those words feel more like echoes of myself than his. He’s at peace, and I’m left here, longing.
If you’re grieving, if you’re feeling the heaviness of the world pressing down on you right now, please know you are not alone. It is brutally hard to move through a world in chaos while carrying grief that never seems to lighten. I can’t promise you things will get easier soon, but I can say this: we need each other. The world needs us to remember that we are more alike than different. Division is the oldest trick in the book, and we can’t let it win.
Choose love over hate. Choose compassion over judgment. Bring peace to each other, even in small ways. That’s how we resist. That’s how we heal. And that’s how we honor the ones we’ve lost, by living in a way that reflects what they poured into us. Because at the end of the day, maybe that’s what my dad would want me to know: knowledge matters, yes, but so does love. And together, they are unstoppable.
