When Father's Day is hard

Two writers share their memories of the men they lost

Photo by Lindy Maio on Unsplash

Does anyone else feel completely out of sync with the seasons? It would be too simple to blame the weather, these volatile skies, switching from downpour to back-blazing sunshine, on repeat, for days. I have a feeling there’s something else going on. Ever since (gulp, I can say it) lockdown time has felt jolted: sometimes as if it is on fast-forward, and others, as if it is not moving at all. Anyway, this is all to say, that I woke up this morning to a photo album of fathers, all across my social media feed, and I realised it was Father’s Day.

I know how hard the day can be for some. Whether it’s because you’ve lost your dad, or are estranged from him, or you really want to be a dad but, for whatever reason, aren’t, this celebration can sting. But, because I’m all-out-of-whack and didn’t recognise that Father’s Day was approaching, I’m afraid I don’t have a new post to share but wanted to re-post last year’s, where two wonderful women I know, who have both lost their dads, told me about them, as well as offering their advice on how they soothe themselves on this day. I loved hearing about these wonderful men, who have raised wonderful daughters so I won’t type too much more and instead hand it over…

Read what they had to say below, and if you’re having a tough time today, I’m sending so much love.

‘My Dad didn’t give a fig about Father’s Day but I still try to use it to remember him’

My dad’s language was music. Years spent collating, curating and coveting music, he spoke to me in the lyrics of Love, Led Zeppelin and Neil Young. We didn’t need car chat when we had Stevie Wonder, Fairport Convention and Frank Zappa on the battered Volvo stereo.

At 6’3, he towered over the tribe of cousins and sister-cousins in our rowdy Irish family, yet the smallest would attach themselves to his legs like one of those little clip-on koalas people would bring home from Australia. He loved cricket and crumpets. He drove trucks (although should have been a world famous music photographer) and he wore green Kickers that he called his ‘Kermit boots’. When I cut an ill-advised fringe into my hair, he said I looked like Nico. He loved Glastonbury and would drop me at the perimeter every year, then watch out for me on the red button. The year after he died, I buried some of his ashes in front of the Glastonbury sign and sealed them with a bottle of Newcastle Brown – a dedicated Toon supporter, I wish he was around to see their success.

A quietly eccentric gentle giant, my father meant the absolute world to me, and I miss him every day.

I don’t find Father’s Day hard until the actual day. It’s not so much the posts from my friends with living fathers, but more the amount of Father’s Day ad content clogging up my feed. My Dad didn’t give a fig about Father’s Day as he hated capitalism (pretty sure he was a secret Marxist), and wouldn’t know the occasion existed if I hadn’t sent cards and other rubbish to him in the post. He cared more about keeping in touch by phone (he didn’t have the internet) and would feel more browned off with my lack of communication rather than a random Father’s Day card.

Still to make the day easier, I will always try and do at least one thing that reminds me of him. Sundays were always our day to catch up, so I make sure I tune into Tom Robinson’s People’s Playlist on 6Music (Dad and I would always listen to it together, and he would make me ‘twit’ requests into the show, lol). Father’s Day always falls in or around Glastonbury too, so if I’m at the festival, I would usually have a cider in his honour. I was bequeathed his expansive record collection too, so will inevitably listen to some of his favourite albums to feel closer to him. 

Grief is weird. Over time, it becomes something familiar – much like the family member you’ve lost. What I have learned about grief though is that you have to treat it like another layer of skin. It becomes part of your fabric and shapes the stitches of what holds life together. For example, through inheritance, I now own my own flat in London – something that would have been a pipe dream before losing Dad. So every day when I wake up in my bed, I like to feel that these walls are like my father’s arms around me. He’s kept me safe, and I feel so grateful. He lives on in the battered records, the black and white photos taken for his first college art project, the weird trophies accumulated over a youth spent making mischief and blagging his way into folk festivals. Also his empathy, his strong belief in inclusivity and standing up for what’s right: all live on within me. And that’s so powerful.

The other day, someone said to me, ‘oh, you’re your father’s daughter,’ and that was the highest compliment anyone could have ever paid me. I just felt so lucky to have known him, and to call him my father. 

Amie-Jo

“I feel his presence all the time”

To put it simply, my dad, Tom, was a legend (not to be biased or anything!) I was only ten when he passed away but I can still remember his quirks, the things he used to say to my sister and I, and his banterous and loving relationship he had with my mum. He was adventurous and used to take us bike riding and to the park every weekend – which is where I get my ~somewhat~ sporty side from. He loved dancing (and flexing his muscles, lol) in the mirror to Michael Jackson and had so many friends. He was a joker, a loud voice and the funniest person in the room.

He passed away suddenly – he was very healthy and happy but unfortunately had an undetected, unexpected aneurysm in his stomach. I wasn’t at the funeral as I was very young at the time but to this day my family still talks about how there were hundreds and hundreds of people who turned up to show their respects, overflowing out of the church. He was truly loved and respected.

Growing up, he would always tell us how lucky we were to have what we did – he grew up on a council estate in North West London with not much to his family name, which is why he worked so hard to provide us with a better life. Relating to this, he would always boast to his friends and family about mine and my sister’s achievements and how successful we would eventually be. This is why I find it so special now when my mum reminds me how proud he would be of us.

This year will be my 13th Father’s Day without him and in all honestly, it never gets any easier. As a beauty journalist for a magazine, in the run up to Father’s Day, my inbox is inundated with ‘Father's Day gift guides’, which, luckily for me, I don’t have to cover. So, sorry to the PRs who take their time to put these press releases together, but they remain unopened and are immediately sent to the archive.

I’m not sure if this is a good coping mechanism (I’ve never had counselling and find it difficult to talk about my feelings to my family and friends about my dad), but I like to keep myself distracted on these difficult days. A few years ago, while at university and without voicing my sadness for Father’s Day, my best friend and her boyfriend took me out and treated me to dinner (on the evening of the day). I will never forget this kind gesture – small to some but it meant everything to me.

What I find most difficult/awkward is when people ask about my plans for this day/ask about my dad in general – e.g what we’re doing, what he does for a job etc. It’s no one’s fault, just small talk with people who don’t know what’s happened.

‘So what are you doing for Father’s day this weekend?’, to which I respond ‘nothing, my dad is dead’. Or if I’m feeling less savage, I’ll tell them I’m celebrating with my grandad. It can be so awkward!

As well as not looking at the Father’s Day emails, I like to keep off of social media. But another really rogue and random technique, is that I actually love being on dead dad TikTok… bear with me here. I like to find the funny in dark situations. Seeing other people like me make jokes about the awkward parts of loss, it just helps. Particularly if you’re laughing with people who feel your pain and understand your situation.

Over the years I’ve learnt that grief, as much as you may try to avoid it, is a forever thing. Grief never goes away – some days you don’t think about it but other days, randomly, it can creep up on you and that’s OKAY! I am guilty of bottling things up and not being able to speak about it – for one, I physically can’t because I get a lump in my throat every time and two, I don’t want to bore people/make people uncomfortable or awkward. But if you don’t want to speak about it, write your thoughts down. Not to sound like a preachy, cringey writer but journaling your thoughts can really help. 

Grief can also be horrible, tough and tricky. Having been so young at the time of my dad’s passing and ‘not really knowing what was going on, at no one’s fault, I think my feelings were swept away. Later in life (around the time I graduated from uni) these feelings crept up on me, along with other life issues which is when I turned to medication. Sertraline gang, where you at?! Sometimes counselling, writing down feelings or ‘going for a walk’ simply can’t resolve the pain of grief and so seeking medication is NOTHING to be ashamed of. My mum, sister and one friend of mine are the only people who know about this, but if one person reads this and feels it helps them, I’ve done my job and am happy!

Not having my dad around has taught me to really cherish the people I have in my life. I love unconditionally (which, in my love life hasn’t worked out too well lol) but I don’t regret that. As morbid as it may sound, one day someone can be here and the next, they’re not, so live life as you want to, with the people you want to and enjoy it.

My dad may not be with me in person, but I feel his presence all the time. I have my very own guardian angel.

Lia

I found reading those really emotional. Particularly learning about these interesting, caring, wonderful sounding men and the impact they’ve made. I’m so grateful to Lia and Amie-Jo for sharing their stories with me, as I know how hard it can be to confront buried memories and think of the person you’ve lost. But it’s also a bittersweet part of the process that can really help. If you find today hard, or want to remember someone you’re missing, let me know in the comments below.