You can let go now Daddy

You Can Let Go Now, Daddy

You know those moments where life is divided into before and after?

This was mine.

In 2024, my world stopped.

People still drove to work. Kids still laughed on playgrounds. The sun still came up every morning. But none of that made sense to me because the person who made my world feel safe was taking his last breaths.

I truly believe the planets spun the other way that day.

For most little girls, their first love is their daddy.

Mine was my grandpa.

He was the man who showed up. The man who loved without conditions. The one who made coffee taste better because it was shared across the kitchen table with stories that somehow got funnier every time he told them. He taught me more than he probably ever realized. Not with lectures, but with the way he lived.

He had the kind of heart people write books about.

And then…

His golden heart stopped.

We knew it was coming.

Hospice had prepared us. Family had prepared us. We had all started grieving before he ever took his last breath. They call it anticipatory grief.

Can I tell you something?

Anticipation doesn’t make grief hurt less.

Knowing the bullet is coming doesn’t make it miss your heart.

It still hits.

It still knocks the wind out of you.

It still leaves you standing in the middle of a room wondering how the world expects you to keep breathing when it feels like yours just ended.

I sat beside his bed and held the same hand that had held mine for so many years.

I told him I loved him.

Then I sang the song I’d heard so many times before.

“You Can Let Go Now, Daddy.”

The words caught in my throat.

“I’ll be okay.”

Looking back…

That was single-handedly the biggest lie I’ve ever told.

Joke’s on me.

I’m still not okay.

I’ve learned grief isn’t something you “get over.”

It becomes your uninvited roommate.

It sits beside you on birthdays.

It rides shotgun on road trips.

It whispers during holidays.

It shows up when you hear an old country song.

When you smell fresh coffee.

When you catch yourself reaching for your phone to call someone who isn’t here anymore.

Some days grief still stings like a pissed-off bee.

Some days it feels like I’m sitting in a submarine waiting to implode beneath the weight of memories.

Some days I laugh until I cry because I remember something ridiculous he said.

And some days…

I just miss my grandpa.

People love to say, “He’s in a better place.”

I know he is.

That doesn’t mean I wanted him to go.

Faith has never erased my grief.

It has simply given my grief somewhere to rest.

Because one day I’ll see him again.

Not sick.

Not tired.

Not hurting.

Just home.

Until then, I’ll keep telling his stories.

I’ll keep making the peanut butter cookies that somehow always taste like childhood.

I’ll keep singing “Baby Blue” when I think of him.

I’ll keep pouring a cup of coffee and remembering the conversations that shaped me.

Love like his doesn’t end when a heartbeat does.

It echoes.

If you’re reading this with tears in your eyes because you’ve had to say goodbye to someone you love, I wish I could reach through this screen and remind you of something I’m still reminding myself:

Your grief is proof that you loved deeply.

And love like that never really dies.

So…

You could let go now, Daddy.

I’m still not okay.

But I’m still here.

And because of you…

I’m going to be.