Must love require suffering?

Last year was the most chaotic year of my life. The year I lost my dad. July 7th, 2025. A date that divided everything into before and after.

I didn’t sit with it, no, didn’t allow myself to. Instead, I threw myself into the corporate world and overstretched in every direction. I told myself I was being strong. In truth, I was avoiding my new reality. If I stayed busy enough, maybe I wouldn’t have to feel it.

My dad was my best friend. My cheerleader. The best provider. The standard I still hold men in my life to. He was the person I called for guidance at any time of day.

The one who knew everything about me. He encouraged me to pursue media long before I understood why I loved writing, why I was glued to Aljazeera, CNN and BBC News, studying anchors and stories. Why I loved watching shows and waited to watch the end credits too. I wanted to know the different roles, the cast, producer, literally all the names. I read them all.

He saw it in me early. When I wanted to write he would tell me to write. Sometimes I wanted to read books and he gave me novels. He read a lot, I read some of his books too.

There were moments last year when I genuinely did not think I would survive it. Without him, my life felt meaningless. I felt alone even in rooms full of people. I sat at corners and cried at work but nobody knew.

Toward the end of the year, I was not myself. I made choices that harmed me. I trusted people I should not have trusted. Grief made me softer in places that needed protection.

Unfortunately, some people take advantage of you when you are most vulnerable. I see that clearly now that I am calmer.

I am still in therapy. Still seeing my psychiatrist. Still doing the work. I speak openly about mental health because I know what it feels like to struggle quietly. The stigma keeps too many young people silent. Silence nearly swallowed me too. Now I'm more present for people who don't look okey.

This year I have learnt how to live again. I am stricter. More self-aware. There is a quiet understanding that no one will hold me the way my dad did. So I am learning to hold myself.

Grief does not end. There are still nights I curl up in bed and cannot believe I will never see him again.

Sometimes I have wondered if I needed to suffer the way I did because I loved him so much. As if pain was the price of that love. As if I deserved it. A punishment.

There are good people in the world. People who check in, they also listen. Who hug you and mean it. I am grateful for them.

Now when I hear that someone has lost a loved one, I cry. Even if I don’t know them. I think about what they are about to face. The days after, when everything feels totally unfamiliar. Sometimes I say a quiet prayer for them.

I didn't know that grief becomes something you carry. Honestly, there are still times that I don't believe it's real.

I have kept a few of my dad’s things. For instance I have a pair of his white earphones. I hope they last a long time.

I miss him.