The Calm Is What Hurts the Most

I think I finally understand why I feel the way I do these days.

My entire life—up until a few months ago—when I got stuck, when I needed someone to just fucking listen, when I needed to feel useful or brave or even just okay,
Dad was there.

Always.

Telling me to chase the dream.
Telling me he was proud.
Telling me I could do this.

One of the last deals I made with him—
I told him I’d just made it to the semifinals of a screenwriting competition.
I told him to hang on, just a little longer, so I could tell him I made the finals.

He didn’t make it that long.

And now I don’t know what to do.
I don’t know who to talk to.
I go to therapy, and the therapist asks what’s bothering me.

I don’t fucking know.

Because talking to Dad wasn’t a prompt.
It wasn’t a scheduled session.
It was organic.
It was safe.
It was real.

He pissed me off sometimes.
But he made things feel manageable.
Like maybe the next chapter wouldn’t swallow me whole.

He wasn’t a fixer.
He didn’t always say the right thing.
But he tried. Even when all he had was, “I’ll pray for you.”

And I gave him grace for that.
Because I knew it was his way of showing up.
It was love, even when it was clumsy.

But now he’s gone.
And I’m the oldest one left in my family.
And that means something I can’t quite name yet.

And I look around at the people I still have—
my wife, my brother, my friends, my in-laws—
and none of them can do what Dad did so effortlessly.

Which was make me feel like maybe it was going to be okay.

And I’m not a believer.
I don’t feel spirits or see signs in birds or get messages in the wind.
The closest I get is in my dreams.
Sometimes I’m with him. Or my brother. Or my mom.
Sometimes I’m in a family house I haven’t stood inside in decades.

But there’s never a message.
Just presence.
Like I’m visiting somewhere I no longer belong.

And now I’m here.
No faith.
No roadmap.
No anchor.

And because of the man Dad raised me to be—
I don’t trust anyone who claims they have the answers.

So here I am.
In a boat.
No oars.
No wind.
No sail.
No rudder.

Just calm waters.
Painfully calm.

And I wait.
Hoping maybe—
maybe—
I’ll see the shore.