When Grief Shows Up Unannounced

Here I am tonight — like so many other nights.
Tired. Trying to go to bed.

And like every night, my mind turns toward Alex.

Most nights I can quiet it eventually. But not tonight. Tonight the voice in my head won’t slow down, and here I am in the middle of the night, needing to get these thoughts out of me.

I recently joined a support group for grieving dads. It felt like it was finally time. I’ve talked with my partner, friends, family, my therapist, my psychiatrist. I’ve talked with people who have known grief in many forms. I’ve even had conversations with Alex’s grandfather, who has also lost a son.

When I told him how sorry I was and that I didn’t know how he had survived this, he said something that has stayed with me. He told me it was different — his son was only a few months old and had medical issues. It wasn’t the same.

And I think I understand what he meant.

Love is love. Grief is grief. I’ve lost grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. I know people who have lost siblings. None of it is easy. All of it hurts. Grief isn’t a competition where one loss hurts more than another. It’s just… different. The shape of it changes depending on the relationship, the history, the memories, the future you thought you had.

The only person who comes closest to understanding how I feel is Alex’s mom. And even then — her grief is different from mine.

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Sitting With Other Dads

Tuesday night was my first session with the other dads. Aside from the facilitators, I’m one of the furthest along in this process. Many of the other dads are still in those early, life-shattering stages where everything feels unreal and impossible.

One of the topics that came up was triggers.

Lying in bed tonight, I’ve been thinking about that — how triggers affected me early on and how they still do. Something that was really hard in the beginning was when I’d see or hear something that hit me out of nowhere, and someone would apologize for “triggering” me. This came up a lot with my partner. It was never her fault, but she would feel terrible and say she was sorry.

Suddenly something that had nothing to do with her became about her — like she had caused my pain.

So I tried to hide it.

I would look for places in the house where I could go, collapse on the floor, and lose control silently so she wouldn’t know I was hurting. That’s not healthy. I know that. But at the time, it felt like the only way to protect her from feeling responsible for something that wasn’t hers to carry.

Grief doesn’t run on a schedule.
It doesn’t wait until you’re ready.
It doesn’t come with a warning.

It just shows up.

Eventually I told her I needed her to stop apologizing — to stop taking responsibility for waves that came from inside me. That conversation changed things. It helped her understand how to help me.

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The Pinball Machine

For Alex’s 21st birthday, we took him to an arcade bar. We got tokens and played games. He ordered drinks. He found a pinball machine he loved and played that same one all night. On the drive home, he was still talking about it — even looking up how much it would cost to buy one.

I lost him less than six weeks later.

Over the summer, we were in Colorado. One day we stopped at a bar-and-grill type place for food. In the back room was a single pinball machine. We both saw it, and instantly we were back in that birthday night with Alex.

I sat with my back to it. I knew I couldn’t look at it. We ate, and I was doing okay.

Then a couple of women started playing.

I could hear it. The ball bouncing. The sharp crack of the paddles. The familiar sounds. And all I could think about was Alex standing there, completely locked into his game, happy.

That was one of those unscheduled moments.

I felt the pressure building in my chest. My breathing getting tighter. The wave rising from somewhere deep that you can’t stop once it starts. And when it finally broke, Kat knew exactly what was happening — because she was right there in it too.

But this time was different.

She didn’t apologize.
She didn’t freeze.

She got up, came over, sat next to me, and just held me.

Exactly what I needed.

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A Group No One Wants

I feel for the dads in that group. I really do. I can see how raw it still is for them. How disorienting. How unfair. I don’t have answers for them. None of us do.

But I’m hopeful.

Hopeful that over the next few months, we can sit in this together. That we can help each other feel less alone in a place no one chooses to be. It’s a group no one wants to belong to.

But I’m grateful it exists.
Grateful there are people who understand this particular shape of pain.
Grateful we can carry a little bit of it for each other when it gets too heavy.

Because grief is going to show up whether we’re ready or not.

And sometimes what saves you isn’t stopping the wave —
it’s having someone sit beside you while it passes.