4 Years- A Toddler Really

At four years old, we are still considered toddlers.
Almost school-aged—but still small.
Still needing daily care, guidance, and patience.

At four, we can communicate our basic needs. We are just beginning to understand bigger ideas, bigger feelings.
At four, the expectations placed on us are minimal.

But.

Four years after a loss, the expectations are anything but.

Four years after someone dies, the world quietly decides you should be moving on. You’re allowed to acknowledge what happened—but briefly. You’re expected to get back to life. To be “okay.” To get back to the swing of things. 

Four years ago, I stood in a room and watched my dad take his last breath. I don’t shy away from talking about his hospice journey. It was the end of his story, but only a chapter in mine—short, intense, and life-altering.

My father died on a Wednesday.
His services were the following Saturday.

The days in between are mostly missing. Grief erased them.

I know fragments.
I know we stopped at a thrift store to buy shoes for the funeral.
I know I drove to the airport to pick up Andy, and somewhere on that drive the weight of it all hit me so hard I couldn’t breathe. The music was too much. The sky was too much. The entire thing- was too much.
I know Andy worked with others—though I couldn’t tell you who—to make a playlist that never worked, and instead the Titanic soundtrack played on repeat during his funeral.
I know I cried tears that were the most intense when the bagpipes played.
I know my cousin Diana checked on me again and again, anchoring me when I couldn’t do it myself.
I know I missed my children desperately and wanted to go home—while also wanting to stay frozen in that place, because leaving meant it would all become real.
I know that inside the bubble of family, I felt held.

And then the bubble burst.

Outside of it, I learned something brutal: the world does not stop when someone loses their dad. Life keeps moving. People go to work. Kids go to school. Dinner still needs to be made.

I wanted time to pause. I wanted space to understand the finality of what had happened. But instead, I returned to my life—to being a mom, a wife, a neighbor. My husband carried me through so much, but even with support, the pace never slowed.

Life continued—just without my dad in it.

Four years later, it still feels raw. It still hurts. I still miss him.
In human terms, four years is a toddler. I still need support. I still need help. I’m still learning how to live in this loss.  I think that I have become great at hiding that. 

But to most people, four years is plenty of time to be over it- and back to normal. 

Grief doesn’t work like that.

It layers itself—sadness, anger, frustration, longing, devastation—stacked one on top of the other. It quiets down just long enough to trick you into believing you’re okay, and then without warning, the volume turns all the way up and there’s nowhere to run.

Even now, as I type this, the sky outside is changing. The sun is setting, painting the clouds in impossible colors. A sign from him? Maybe. Or maybe it’s just proof that time keeps going, whether we’re ready or not. We don’t get to stop it. We only get moments—snapshots that turn into memories, and memories that slowly turn into knowledge.

There are a few things I know for sure.

I know that if I could go back, I would do things differently.
I know I would never take time for granted.
I know grief doesn’t leave—it just changes shape.

So cheers, Old Man.
I miss you.

I wish you could see what the last four years have brought to my family and me.
I wish you had taken better care of yourself.
I wish you had known how deeply loved you were.
I wish I could have fixed you.

Today, more than anything else, I wish I could hear you say,
“Hey baby.”