No One Is Coming To Save You. The Hard Truth About Grief and Independence
On learning to become your own anchor when loss threatens to pull you under
The weeks leading up to anniversaries and holidays often hit us hardest in our grief. The actual days themselves feel easier, largely because they’re predictable. We know what to expect and have braced ourselves for spending the day missing those who have passed.
With Father’s Day approaching, I’ve begun to tighten my stomach, waiting for the punch to land. This will be my fifth without Ariana. While I have complicated feelings about the day itself, it forces me to reflect on what it means to be a father to my children and what it meant to be a son.
My biological father passed away six years ago, almost exactly one year before my wife. So Father’s Day creates layers of grief around what I’m supposed to be celebrating. For so long, I would bend and break, begging for Ariana to come back and save me.
But here’s the uncomfortable truth I need to tell you: No one is coming to save you. Your loved one will never come back.
I know it feels obvious; they’re dead, of course they aren’t coming back.
But there’s this deep-seated desperation in our darkest moments when we cry out to them and beg for their return. When life feels overwhelming and you have no idea how to take the next step, next action, or next breath. In the cloud of grief, you feel like if you beg hard enough, cry loud enough, or scream fierce enough, they will return and save you.
It’s in those moments when you want to pick up the phone and call them—your one trusted advisor—to ask for their help. It’s the pain of watching your children see other families with their mothers or fathers intact, knowing they feel the weight of their loss while you feel the weight of being two parents.
The Impossible Weight of Being Everything
I’ve long struggled to fill the gap Ariana left behind for my kids. In the beginning, I sacrificed sleep to do everything I believed needed to be done. If I could squeeze a few more hours from each day, I could be all things to them, I arrogantly thought.
It took hitting bottom, when sickness and brokenness consumed me, to realize the truth. Not the logical, intellectual knowing, but the experiential knowing that forced me to finally give up. I accepted the hard truth: Ariana was not coming back. I was on my own. I had to save myself.
I had to acknowledge that even without her here, I could still be enough.
I had to admit that desperately wanting to be rescued kept me from stepping into my own potential and self-discovery.
I had to trust that Ariana left her wisdom within me in all our shared experiences and late-night conversations.
Her wisdom would appear when I needed it most.
I am the family anchor for my kids now.
Redefining What It Means to Be a Man
This reality challenges my identity as a father, as a man. I grew up learning (directly and indirectly) that to be “a man” means holding everything together. Never wavering. Never backing down. Always maintaining control. You have no time for emotions.
Letting go of control means letting go of old scripts about manhood. It means learning to love myself as I am and quieting the voice that screams at me to shut up, get up, and keep going despite the open wound in my chest.
This is about creating my own legacy.
It’s about letting the memory of my dad and Ariana become a source of gratitude, not need. Where my relationship with them shifts from that of a child desperately needing to be held and fed, to that of an independent human who, while sad, finds new ways to remember those who’ve gone before him.
Independence Doesn’t Mean Isolation
While independence and acceptance are the goals, that doesn’t mean going at it alone. Over the four years since Ariana died, I’ve slowly and methodically built new support networks. A tribe of mentors, friends, and professionals I can lean on when needed. The few people I can call when things are hard and when things are easy who will celebrate wins and losses.
I’ve had to learn to trust my own judgment, especially in raising the kids, without guilt or fear that Ariana would disapprove. The reality is simple: she’s not here. It’s just me, and I have to do what I have to do in each moment, at each stage of their lives and mine.
I’m finding ways for us to honor Ariana without dependent rituals that become lifelines I need to function each day.
A Different Kind of Father’s Day
So, going into this Father’s Day, after the year I’ve had, I’m focusing on finding joy in the simple fact that my kids and I have survived this long. We’re finding our new path. I’ve gained hard-fought freedom and independence.
I’m realizing how far my relationship with grief has come and understanding that growth and grief don’t just coexist; they’re mutually inclusive.
I’m giving myself permission to opt out of Father’s Day, or any holiday, if that’s what I need.
We’re all allowed to have complex relationships with certain days of the year. Independence isn’t abandonment of the love and relationship I had with Ariana or my dad.
It’s growth.
My love and framing of them has shifted.
What is one gift your loved one taught you that has stuck with you? I’d love to hear from you in the comments.
Beautiful article. Reading something this beautiful and heartfelt is what makes me so thankful Substack exists. Thank you for sharing your experiential knowledge within your experience with grief. I wish I had better words at the moment, but I think that's kind of the effect grief often tends to have… Words can never quite feel adequate enough.
There's so much courage, trust and love that you've articulated between the lines here CJ. These may be hard truths, a journey towards joy-filled moments, giving yourself permission with grace and making those hard reframes..but they highlight something we caregivers have learnt the hard way - to keep adapting and showing up for ourselves and others with an agility. Tough love and the real-deal self-care! Thank you.