Father’s Day has quietly become a bit of a non-day in our house.

Actually—Mother’s Day too. These days. These dates. Who even invented them? When everyone’s alive and well, they’re wonderful, sure. Full of joy and cards and little-kid scribbles that make you cry in the good way. But when your child’s dad is no longer here—when you’ve lost your person, your co-parent, your teammate—these days just feel… off. Like someone else’s celebration that you’ve been quietly uninvited from.

In our family, we’ve figured out our own way. Or maybe “figured out” is generous. We’ve fumbled our way to what feels least painful.

The first couple of years, I really tried. I wanted to mark it fully—for Andy. For our son. A card, a gift, a proper moment. But it didn’t land that way. It hurt our son. Deeply. He didn’t want to do any of it. It just made him more upset, and when he was upset, I was upset, and the whole thing would spiral into this painful reminder that our family doesn’t function like other families anymore.

I’d see the Father’s Day cards at the shops. Watch the fuss online and at school. All these lovely, normal families doing lovely, normal things—and I’d feel that ache. The ache of exclusion. Of being on the outside.

But I get it. I do. My son is in pain. And he’s not ready to sit in that pain. So we don’t force it. We don’t push it. The same way we don’t do big gestures on Andy’s death anniversaries. We tried. It didn’t work. We’ve let it be.

Now, we say “Happy Father’s Day” to Andy’s photo. We light a candle. It’s small. Quiet. And honestly, a part of me is grateful for that. I’ve never liked the pressure of cards and gifts and performative sentiment anyway. I find birthdays stressful enough. Don’t get me started on Christmas. (Actually, do: last year was perfect—we stayed home, almost saw no one, and skipped the chaos completely. No guilt, no pressure, just our little neurodivergent bubble doing our own thing.)

But still. Even with this small, low-pressure way of marking it, there’s a voice in me that says I should do more. I should make it matter. I should make it count.

And maybe I will. Maybe I’ll write Andy a letter, tell him about how our son is doing, how life feels. Last year we wrote little notes and burned them in the garden—let them float up to wherever the dads go. We might do that again. Or maybe I’ll do it alone. We’ll see.

Because the truth is—when someone is dead, and you can’t bring them back, and you still want to celebrate the fact that they were/are a father, that they are part of your story… it’s hard. So hard.

Andy only got to be a dad for four and three-quarter years. That number is burned into me. That longing—for him to still be here, still be Dad—is always there. Softer now, yes. But still present.

So if you’re out there, not knowing how to do Father’s Day, not feeling like you’re getting it right—just know: there’s probably someone out here being weirder and messier about it than you. There’s no perfect way to do these days when someone is missing.

Take the pressure off. Let it be small. Or loud. Or invisible.

Whatever helps you breathe.

P.S.
If this Father’s Day is hitting a little sideways for you too—if you’re quietly dodging it, reshaping it, or just trying to get through it—you’re not alone. There’s no right way to grieve, to remember, or to keep showing up when someone’s missing.

You can find more stories like this on my blog, or if you need something gentler right now, you can download my free meditation. And if you’d like to stay in touch, you can sign up for my newsletter or check out what support I’m offering at the moment here.

We’re all figuring it out. Messily. Lovingly.