Grief is such a strange companion.
It doesn’t arrive neatly at the end of a story, like a closing curtain. It seeps into everyday life long before the final goodbye, weaving itself into the ordinary rhythms of work, motherhood, marriage, and entrepreneurship.
For me, grief began the moment my father started slipping in and out of hospitals. Six months of repeated admissions and discharges, and recoveries that never truly restored him. Six months of watching someone I deeply loved and respected come home “medically well,” yet somehow diminished each time.
We rallied as a family. We tried to keep his spirits alive. We laughed with him, told him stories, encouraged him to eat. But at night, behind closed doors, we whispered about things children never want to discuss: DNR waivers, caskets and urns, burial or cremation. We debated whether we were prolonging his suffering by pushing for treatments, even as we prayed for one more day, one more month, one more year with him. And he, stubborn as always, refused to sign away his right to fight until the very end.
It felt surreal, living in two realities at once. I was at his bedside, holding his hand, listening to his breathing. At the same time, I was scrolling through memorial plans, learning the differences between bank signatories and thumb-mark requirements, trying to ensure that when the inevitable happened, we wouldn’t be left helpless.
How do you reconcile that? Speaking of your father in the past tense, even while he’s alive, yet too weak to argue with you for it.
Grief during life is not unlike grief after death. I’ve cycled through denial, anger, guilt, bargaining, and acceptance over and over, even while he was still with us. Every hospitalization felt like a rehearsal for loss, every discharge like a temporary reprieve. By the time the end came, the emotions were all knotted together. I felt guilt that I sometimes wished for his pain to be over, relief that it finally was, sorrow so heavy it made it hard to breathe, and love that somehow survived all of it.
And now, I’m left with this new rhythm of life. Easing myself back to work while the tears sneak up at the most random times of the day. Having dinner with family while remembering the dishes he had said he wanted to eat once he got out of the hospital. Tucking my kids in at night, wondering how much of their Lolo they’ll carry with them. As with most other people who have experienced the death of a loved one, I walk side by side with grief as my new normal.
It doesn’t replace the love, though. If anything, it magnifies it.
Because at the end of everything, beyond the guilt, the exhaustion, the surreal moments of planning for death while still clinging to life, what lingers most is love. The kind that doesn’t fade, even as grief keeps reshaping itself in unexpected ways.
If you’ve ever found yourself in that space where love and grief live together, I would love to hear from you. How have you carried it? How has it changed the way you move through your everyday? Knowing I’m not walking alone in these feelings, that others have also learned to live with loss while holding on to love, would be its own kind of comfort.
And for everything you were and everything you continue to be in our hearts: I love you forever, Papa. Until we meet again.
All photos from the personal library of Camille Besinga. In writing this blog post, we used AI assistance for clarity, accuracy, and to align with our editorial guidelines and our commitment to providing valuable insights. You can view our full AI Use disclosure here.
This brought me to tears. Condolences to you and your family Ms. Camille <3
Thank you so much, Yan <3