Does It Get Easier?

This is the most common question I’ve been asked over the past few years, ever since my dad passed away.

The short answer?
No. It doesn’t get easier—and it probably never will.

The thing about grief is this: one day, someone who was essential to your life just… disappears. They’re gone in the physical sense, and all you have left are the memories. Moments frozen in time. And then comes the awkward follow-up:
“OMG, I could never imagine.”
“Wow, I could not handle that.”

Those are statements rooted in choice.
I didn’t have a choice.
Grief landed in my lap, completely uninvited, and on top of all the other pressures of life, I had to learn how to live without him.

Yes, most days I want to curl up and cry, begging the universe to bring him back. But that’s the thing about death—it’s permanent. No do-overs. No rewinds. Just absence.

I was 20 years old when he passed, right in the thick of COVID. I was in my final year of college, a diploma application submitted, full of dreams and excitement for the career I had worked so hard for. And then... everything changed.

When I hear people complain about their dads, or joke about how hard it is to shop for them during the holidays, I have to bite my tongue. I’d give anything—anything—just to have one more minute with mine. One more laugh. One more hug. One more "I’m proud of you."

I want to scream, “At least you still have him.”
You still get to call. You still get to make new memories.
I lost that. And there’s no replacing it.

Now, every milestone feels like it's missing a piece.

My future husband will never get to ask for my dad’s blessing.
My children will only know him through the stories I tell.
I won’t get a father-daughter dance.
No one to walk me down the aisle.
No “Papa” to laugh with my kids or teach them all the lessons he taught me.

All those moments? Gone.

But if there’s one thing I never questioned, it was his love.
I knew—always—that he was proud of me. That he was in my corner, no matter what. He taught me that pain doesn’t have to make you cruel, and that kindness is always free.

He showed me how to be strong without being cold.
How to carry heartbreak without letting it define me.

One of the biggest lessons my father ever gave me was this:

Life moves on.

Even when it’s unfair. Even when it hurts so badly it knocks the wind out of you.
I had to get up and keep going—not because the pain was gone, but because my life didn’t end when his suddenly did.

And as much as I wish I could stay in that moment, frozen in grief, I know that’s not what he’d want. He’d want me to live, and live well.

My biggest fear is that I’ll forget the sound of his voice. His laugh. The exact way he said my name.
But here’s what I still carry with me:

• The eyes, he taught me to see the world through.
  
  

• The mind, he pushed me to grow.
  
  

• The heart, he helped shape—one that values love, empathy, and resilience.
  
  

I will always be his daughter.
And while I wish I had more time, I consider myself incredibly lucky to have had a beautiful short time, rather than a long one filled with distance or pain.

Whenever grief washes over me—and it still does—I remind myself of that quote by Andrew Garfield, talking about his late mother:

“I hope this grief stays with me, because it’s all the unexpressed love that I didn’t get to tell her.”

And that’s exactly what this is.
Grief isn’t just sadness.
It’s love that had nowhere to go.

Always warped and twisted as ever,
Eve