Father’s Day When Your Dad Isn’t Here: Living with Loss After Suicide.
Father’s Day can feel suffocating.
Honestly, there’s no softer word for it some years.
It’s full of cards, messages, photos… people talking about dads they can call, hug, sit with, text, laugh with. And then there are those of us just… moving through it differently. A bit quieter. A bit heavier. Carrying something that no one else can really see. Because when your dad has died by suicide, Father’s Day doesn’t just feel sad.
It can feel painful in a way that sits much deeper than anything you can explain out loud. It’s the kind of pain that catches you unexpectedly. In small moments. In memories. In the emptiness where someone should be. I know this not just through my work, but through my own life too. Because I lost my dad to suicide.
So if today feels heavy for you… If there’s that tight knot in your chest, or that strange sense of something missing that you can’t quite put into words, I just want to gently say this:
You are not alone in that.
You Are Not Alone in This
In the UK, over 7,000 people die by suicide each year. Around 75% of those are men, that’s roughly 75 men every single week.
Seventy-five families. Every week!
That’s possibly seventy-five sets of children, partners, parents… left behind, trying to make sense of something that often doesn’t make sense at all.
And then there’s everyone around them, too. Friends. Work colleagues. Communities. People who loved them in different ways, in different spaces. The numbers grow quickly when you really sit with it, don’t they? But even knowing that… it can still feel so isolating when it’s your own dad.
Because these statistics don’t sit with you in the quiet moments. They don’t hold you when your dad’s favourite song comes on the radio, and you have tears rolling down your cheeks. Statistics don’t sit in the anger that comes out of nowhere. That really raw thought of, “how could he do this?” Stastics dont have that “why didn’t anyone stop this?” feeling that can rise and catch in your throat. They don’t sit in those moments where it doesn’t feel like numbers at all; it just feels like absence. Heavy, painful absence. Everywhere and nowhere all at once. Or the things you still wish you could say, if you just had one more chance. Even just one conversation more. And underneath all of that, in the quietest, most honest place… there’s often this feeling that can be hard to admit:
“I feel so alone in this.”
So if that’s where you are today, please hear me when I say this slowly: There are so many of us walking this path. Even if it doesn’t always feel like we can see each other.
The Kind of Grief That Doesn’t Sit Neatly
Grief after suicide doesn’t sit neatly in any kind of box. It’s not just sadness, it’s questions that don’t leave you alone! It’s not just love. It’s anger, too, and sometimes a lot of it. It’s not just loss. It’s confusion, and replaying things, and trying to make sense of something that refuses to make sense.
You might find yourself going over things again and again in your mind. Turning them over, wondering if there was something you missed. Something you should have seen. Something you could have done differently - I know I do.
You might feel hurt. Deeply, deeply, hurt. You might feel abandoned in ways you don’t always say out loud.
And then at the same time, you might feel protective of them, protective of their memory, all mixed in together. And sometimes… and this is the part people don’t always talk about… you might even feel nothing at all for a while.
And somehow, all of that can exist at the same time. None of it makes you a bad person, none of it means you’re grieving “wrong”.
It just means you’re grieving something incredibly complicated and incredibly human.
Why Today Can Hurt So Much
Days like Father’s Day have a way of pulling everything closer to the surface, doesn’t it? While the world feels like it’s celebrating, you might just be trying to get through it in one piece. Every post you see, every message, every reminder… it can all quietly point to what, or who, is missing.
You might want to turn it all off. You might want to lean into memories. Or you might not know what you want at all, which is its own kind of exhausting.
And honestly… there is no right way to do things today. Do things your way, however it looks.
If Today Feels Like Too Much..
If today feels especially heavy, maybe just take these gently, one at a time:
Take the pressure off; you don’t have to make today meaningful. You don’t have to “do” it well. Just getting through is enough.
Let yourself feel whatever shows up. Weather its sadness, anger, numbness, tears, or even moments of okay, nothing needs to be pushed away.
Create a quiet moment, if it feels right. A memory, a song, a place in your mind. Not because you should, but because sometimes it helps to connect in your own way.
Stay close to someone safe. Even if you don’t talk about it. Just not being alone in the day can soften it a little.
Step away from anything that feels too much. You don’t owe your attention to anything that hurts you today.
Be gentle with yourself… In your thoughts, in your expectations, in the way you move through the day.
From Someone Who Understands
Losing my dad means this day will always carry something in it for me. There are moments where it feels incredibly loud, the absence, the questions, the love, the pain… all tangled together. But over time, I’ve come to understand that it doesn’t have to be either/or.
The grief doesn’t disappear.
But it shifts, it moves. Some parts soften, some parts stay sharp, and some days feel heavier than others. And sometimes, in unexpected moments, there can also be a sense of connection too. A small one. Not instead of the pain, but sitting alongside it.
A Quiet Reminder
If today hurts, you don’t need to hide it. If today feels heavy, you don’t need to rush it away. And if today is simply about making it through, honestly, that’s enough!
Because even here… even in this kind of pain… You are not alone!
Others understand this kind of loss. Others who are carrying it too, in their own way, today.
And somehow, quietly, that shared understanding matters.
Written by Beccie
