When Somebody Loves You Back: Grieving a Suicide Loss, My Dad, and Learning to Live Again

Today is his birthday. A few days ago was the anniversary of my dad’s death. And as much as the holidays are supposed to mean joy and togetherness, for me they’ve looked very different these past few years. December has become a month layered with love, grief, memory, heartbreak, gratitude… and truth.

The title of this post comes from Teddy Pendergrass’ “When Somebody Loves You Back.” He played it ALL THE TIME. It felt like a joke at first, but over time it became something tender—something that meant, “I see you,” without either of us having the language or vulnerability to say it.

We met three weeks before my dad died. It was supposed to be casual and short-lived. My world was already heavy, and I didn’t have emotional space for anything. We both had our walls. He did what he did and so did I. But he showed up for me….holding me as I sobbed in fetal position after learning my dad had COVID. There was a level of respect and care that I would one day mourn.

He always answered me. Always. So when he suddenly didn’t, I knew something was wrong. He eventually texted saying he’d explain everything when he got back. “I’m just glad you’re okay,” I responded. That was our last exchange. A week later, he died by suicide.

I carried guilt I didn’t know what to do with. I cried every day for months while continuing to work, lead, push through, and pretend I was “strong.” I was already grieving my dad, already stretched thin as a caregiver, already surviving on empty—yet I still wondered if I could have saved him. If I could have seen more, asked more, pushed more. That kind of guilt slowly rearranges your DNA.

Losing my dad shattered me, but losing him cracked something even deeper—the part of me that still believed people don’t leave. The part that believed in safety. The part that didn’t yet know how fragile a human spirit can be.

There are things this journey taught me:

I learned that you can have a real relationship without traditional labels. Connection counts. Presence counts. Care counts. Losing him hurt deep.

I learned that women deserve to rest, collapse, ask for help, and not be “strong.” I should have taken time off. I should have let people see how bad it was. I should not have pretended I could function normally—because I couldn’t.

I learned that depression doesn’t always look like what you think. It hides. It laughs. It works. It shows up for others while quietly sinking inside.

I learned that therapy works when you let it. Medication is not weakness. Vulnerability is not weakness. Saying “I’m not okay” is not weakness.

And I learned that grief changes you in ways you can’t explain to people who haven’t carried it. There was a “me” before my dad’s death. And then a “me” after. But there is also a “me” before his death, and a “me” after. Both losses shaped the way I love, trust, attach, and detach. Both created abandonment wounds I’m still slowly untangling. But both also deepened my empathy, sharpened my discernment, and reminded me how sacred time, presence, and people really are.

This holiday season isn’t suddenly easy. The ache doesn’t disappear. But for the first time in a long time, there is also new joy ahead—my brother’s first child. There’s something beautifully poetic about grief and hope being allowed to sit together. One doesn’t cancel the other. Both can be true.

To my dad—I miss you every day.
To old man—happy birthday. Thank you for caring for me in the ways you could.
To anyone grieving quietly—especially during the holidays—I see you. Your heart is allowed to hold both pain and promise.

We don’t move on. But we do move forward. Today, I honor both the love and the loss that shaped me. And with that truth, I’m ready for 2026 and all it has to offer.

Love,

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