Good Grief

As of Wednesday, January 14, 2026, it’s been twelve years since we lost my dad - and somehow that still feels equal parts impossible and completely believable. There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t think of him and miss him and hope I see signs from him.

Lately, I find myself wondering who he’d be today, how he’d see the world now, and what he’d make of the life I’ve built. Would he be excited about House of Stellium? Would he be surprised I ended up becoming an event planner and not a lawyer?

Even after all this time, there are moments when I wish I could still ask him questions - about his side of the family, about my car, about severe weather planning, fire certifications, event egresses, and all the things he just knew. The kind of everyday expertise you don’t realize you’re leaning on until it’s gone.

One of the quieter challenges of time passing is how memories begin to blur. If you grew up straddling the era before cell phones, digital cameras, and cloud storage (like I did), it can be hard to find photos or videos that restore or affirm what you remember. Sometimes you’re left holding fragments and feelings instead of proof.

Losing my Dad at 29 Changed Me

The way I view life shifted. The way I make decisions shifted. The way I experience the world shifted. There is a clear line in my life - before I lost my dad, and after.

What grief taught me early on is this: everything is temporary.

Shortly after losing my dad, I heard Anderson Cooper recount in an interview that the quote by Mary Gordon, “A fatherless girl thinks all things possible, and nothing safe." was one his mother, Gloria Vanderbilt would often recite to him. You see, she was no stranger to grief and grieving. In fact, her father died when she was only 18 months old and later in life she lost her husband ten years before she lost her son, Anderson’s brother, when he was only 23 years old.

But I digress. For me, I resonated with this quote after my dad died because it meant I had to operate differently in the world - the man who was always only one phone call away to save me was no longer available to pick up the phone when I needed help. It was a painful realization but one that propelled me into some serious post-traumatic growth, which is a term I learned by reading Sheryl Sandberg’s memoir about losing her husband Dave suddenly, called “Option B.”

I share all this to say - you can’t keep waiting for “one day.” If you’re carrying a dream in your heart, you have to go after it, or risk living with regret. What’s the worst that could happen? You fail? Okay. You’ve already survived a profound loss. Everything else is survivable, too.

My grief journey has been exactly that - a journey. There’s so much I didn’t know I was about to experience when my dad passed, and so much I wish someone had told me. What follows are the things I learned along the way.

What I Wish I Knew About Grief

1. No two people grieve the same person the same way.
   Even when you’re grieving the same loss, your experience will look different from everyone else’s. You can’t hold that against them—but you should keep reaching out to them.

2. Some people will distance themselves from you, but it’s not because they don’t care.
   Many people don’t know how to show up around grief. Give grace where you can—but also notice who does show up and let them in.

3. You will go through the dreaded “year of firsts.”
   First birthdays and first holidays without them. First random Tuesdays where it hits you out of nowhere. It’s going to suck, but you will get through it. Do what feels right on those days. 

4. You may not recognize yourself for a while.
   That’s normal. Especially if you’re grieving deeply. But grief isn’t meant to be carried alone—make sure you have support (ideally professional support).

5. You’ll instantly have a connection with others who’ve experienced a similar loss as you.
   There’s a quiet, unspoken understanding. Deep empathy. No explanations required - they just get it. It’s one of the strange gifts grief gives you.

6. You may somehow feel completely unsteady and yet somehow bulletproof in the early days of grieving.
   Both can be true. Watch the extremes. Neither numbness nor invincibility lasts forever.

7. Grief is sneaky (aka “Grief is a tricky bitch.” - LJP circa 2014)—and relentless in its timing.
   It will show up when you least expect it. Let it visit. Make room for the waves so they don’t become tidal waves. Crying helps (and is energetically cleansing). Holding it in doesn’t. Let ‘em flow.

8. Anniversaries may be harder than you expect—plan for them.
   Protect your peace. Decide ahead of time how you want to move through the day. You’re allowed to opt out of anything that doesn’t feel supportive. I always take the day off from work no matter how many years it’s been because I don’t want anyone to ask anything of me on that day.

9. Grief will change you in brutiful ways.
   Some changes will make sense. Some won’t. Let grief clarify what matters—but don’t let it trap you in fear. Post-traumatic growth is real. If you let yourself be transformed, you can emerge a more open-hearted, present, and intentional human.

10. Your relationship with them doesn’t end—it evolves.
    You don’t have to visit a grave to feel close to them. You’re allowed to keep the relationship alive in your own way—through memories, asking for signs, rituals, conversation, or quiet moments of connection. I know my dad is always with me and it brings me great comfort to know he’s watching over me.

11. The body keeps the score—you may not be consciously aware of the anniversary but your body is.
    Each year my grief brews about a week before the anniversary of my dad’s passing. I’m not always consciously aware of what’s happening in the moment but for me, it looks like operating at half speed, needing more sleep, needing more quiet, feeling like my body is heavier, and being easily irritated by everything and everyone. Seriously. I know I’m being griefy when the mere existence of people near me annoys me.

12. There may come a time when your memories start to become fuzzy of them-don’t panic.
    Our brains strengthen memories through repetition. When someone is alive, we’re constantly “refreshing” them by seeing their face, hearing their voice, etc. So don’t panic - you’re not forgetting them. You are remembering them differently. Look at old photos and videos, and maybe print some more photos for visual reminders of memories you made together.

Lindsay and her dad, James aka Jim aka Jimbo circa 1987 or 1988.

Lindsay’s brother Derek, her dad James, and Lindsay on The Incredible Hulk rollercoaster in Orlando, FL.

On Protecting Your Peace (Especially on Anniversaries)

Maybe you don’t need a full, immersive, grief-protection mode on anniversaries—but I’ve learned that I do.

I go hide at the spa and get a massage on the anniversary of my dad’s passing. I don’t want to talk to anyone and I want to be as comfortable as I can on this day. However you want to fill and whatever you want to do - do you.

There’s something about silence on this day that brings me closer to my dad than anything else. When we slow down and soften our nervous systems, we put ourselves in a state where connection feels easier—where memories surface gently and signs can be received instead of searched for.

Each January, I try to channel whatever energy comes up for me. And after more than a decade of navigating my grief, I’ve learned that it’s better—for me—to make space for it rather than push it away.

No fighting.
No forcing.
Whatever flavor of grief shows up, I let it.

Not everyone will have the same level of empathy or understanding when you’re feeling “griefy,” and that can be painful in its own way. That’s why it’s so important to remember to give yourself what you need on this day.

So if I may offer one gentle suggestion:

Let “protect your peace” be your motto. Especially if you’re someone who pours deeply into others.

For one day—it is more than okay to pour into yourself.

Twelve years later, I’m still deeply grateful for the people who showed up for me then—and who continue to show up now. I try to pay that love forward whenever I can.

Remembering my dad, James Purcell (a Taurus sun) today and every day.