80: how I find joy while grieving someone who's still alive

and a video from my dad:-)

I promise you…there is life on the other side.

On Thursday, I was talking to my therapist about the slow, ongoing grief I carry for my dad. He’s still alive, but the waves still hit - sudden, quiet moments of sadness that catch me off guard.

One wave came while I was packing up their room before moving from the house to my apartment. I stepped in to sort through what to throw away, what to send to my brother, what to keep.

And, there they were. My dad’s books.

A humble stack he used to walk around with, his folded papers tucked between the pages like bookmarks. That alone brought tears - reminders of the deeply thoughtful man he once was. The way we’d dive into philosophical conversations.

Today, he can’t read. He can’t really hold a conversation at all.

As I opened one book after another, removing the napkins and bits of folded paper, I found a note in his bible. A gratitude list from around the year 2000.

The first line read:
“Nneka called today.”

Yeah. That one cracked me open.

Even now, just writing it, my eyes sting. My breath catches.

The grief doesn’t feel as jarring as it did in 2022 when I found him trying to heat water by placing it in the toaster oven. It doesn’t carry the same fury I felt in 2020, when I started sorting through their finances, only to realize how deep the mess was.

Back then, I didn’t fully understand what we were dealing with.

I told myself I was just being practical when I got the power of attorney. I didn’t want to need his permission to speak to bill collectors.

I was planning to leave. Planning to get married. To move several states away. I needed the paperwork.

It wasn’t sentimental. It was just logistics.

Or so I thought.

But when my therapist recently asked what would make someone get a POA for an otherwise “healthy” person, I had to pause.

Maybe I did know.

After all, they say denial is the first stage of grief.

I’m not in denial anymore. Five years later, I feel the quiet ache of subtle sadness. And yes, it is strange to grieve someone who’s still alive.

But, I’m on the other side now. Or at least, another side.

These days, the grief hits less often. It’s softer. Less frequent. And in between the ache, I feel joy again.

Just the other day, our caregiver sent a video of my dad that made me smile with my liver:-) It brought on full-bodied JOY. The kind of joy that makes you feel like your chest has windows.

Looking back, I see the thousands of tiny, heartbreaking, brave decisions that led to this moment - my parents in Trinidad, thriving and well cared for. Me, in my own apartment. Dreaming again. Supported. Safe.

When I started writing these letters in the deep, dark of 2023, I couldn’t see what was ahead. But deep down, I knew another side existed.

And here I am.

So if you’re in the thick of it right now, if you’re tired, uncertain, grieving a loss you can’t name—please hear me:

There is life on the other side.

Keep swimming.

In Joy,
Nneka
Trini-born sage and Oracle

P.S. I write these letters to remind us that soft living isn’t just about ease—it’s about courage too. If you know someone who needs that reminder, forward this to them.