Tag: grief

🎂 58 Years, A Birthday of Truths

Yesterday marked my 58th birthday. A day that should have been filled with laughter, cake, and celebration—but instead, it unfolded as a quiet reckoning. A moment where joy and sorrow sat side by side, each demanding to be felt.

Here’s what I discovered:

  1. I’m getting older. The beard is greyer, the wrinkles are deeper, and the mirror doesn’t lie.
  2. I’m three years away from my next colonoscopy—a reminder that time marches on, whether we’re ready or not.
  3. I may never hear from my daughter again.

That last one cuts the deepest.

As a gay dad, this story is heartbreakingly familiar. Too many of us come out later in life, hoping for understanding, only to be met with silence. Some children can’t reconcile who we are with who they thought we were. And so, they disappear. No calls. No texts. No birthday wishes. Just absence.

I’ve felt this ache before. After my son died, there was a pain in my gut that never fully left. It resurfaces on days like this—birthdays, anniversaries, holidays. But this year felt different. There was hope. A fragile, flickering hope that maybe, just maybe, I’d get a message. A simple “Happy Birthday, Dad.” But as the hours passed, that hope dimmed. And the silence grew louder.

It’s hard to celebrate when your heart is heavy. The people around you may not understand the weight you carry. They see the balloons, the smiles, the toast—but they don’t see the grief tucked behind your eyes. And even if they do, they may not know how to help. Because there’s no magic wand for this kind of pain. No quick fix. Just the quiet truth that some wounds don’t heal—they just become part of you.

I think about other parents—those whose children are missing, or taken hostage in places like Israel and Gaza. The not-knowing. The unbearable uncertainty. The way joy feels like betrayal when your heart is still searching. You want to celebrate, but you also want to honor the ache. And sometimes, you don’t know how to do either.

This year, I honored my son by purchasing a bracelet. It’s simple, but sacred. I wear it on days that were special to him, and to me. It’s a symbol of remembrance, of love, of connection that transcends absence. Maybe it’s time I do the same for my daughter. A quiet signal to those who know me: when you see this bracelet, know that I’m reflecting. Know that I’m celebrating and grieving, all at once.

Maybe I should speak these feelings aloud more often. Maybe I shouldn’t have to. I don’t know. But I do know this: I’ve started channeling my love toward those who are present. My partner’s children. My chosen family. The people who show up. Because love doesn’t disappear—it just finds new places to land.

I write these posts because I care. Because there are gay dads out there who feel this same ache. Who celebrate in silence. Who grieve in the shadows. And I want you to know—you’re not alone.

We are still worthy of joy. Still capable of love. Still deserving of celebration.

Even when the silence is deafening.

Breaking the Silence: Grief, Identity, and the Journey to Self-Acceptance

A few weeks ago marked the 29th anniversary of my son’s death. He was just an infant when he passed, but the impact of that loss has echoed through every chapter of my life. For years, I carried a weight that no parent should bear—the belief that I was responsible for his death.

On the day he died, I tried to perform CPR. I wasn’t successful. That moment haunted me for the next 17 years. I convinced myself that his death was a punishment from God for being gay—a truth I hadn’t yet shared with anyone. The guilt was relentless, and the shame unbearable.

One of the most painful triggers came unexpectedly. A year ago, I was helping set up a CPR class at work. Everything was fine until I saw the baby mannequins. In an instant, I was transported back to that traumatic day. The grief surged, raw and unfiltered.

It wasn’t until I came out in 2012 that I began to confront the layers of pain I had buried. I started seeing a therapist—something that was stigmatized in the community I grew up in, especially if the therapist wasn’t affiliated with a church. But I knew I needed help, and I was fortunate to have insurance that made therapy accessible. Those sessions became a lifeline.

Through therapy, I learned that I did not cause my son’s death. I began to unravel the guilt, the shame, and the internalized fear that had kept me closeted for so long. I had spent years imagining a devil and an angel on my shoulders, each whispering conflicting messages. After my son died, people told me he might have lived if I had prayed more. Those words cut deep and forced me to reevaluate the role religion played in my life.

The grief was overwhelming. I would visit his grave and sob uncontrollably. Sometimes, I found myself in very dark places. Before coming out, I struggled with how to reconcile my identity with the expectations of my family, friends, and community. I even contemplated ending my life to avoid the shame I feared would come with being honest about who I was.

But eventually, I chose to live authentically. Some called it selfish—that I prioritized myself over my marriage and daughter. But I knew that hiding any longer would destroy me. Coming out was not just about claiming my identity—it was about reclaiming my life.

Therapy helped me understand that God loves me as I am—not as someone molded to fit a congregation’s idea of a man. I learned to process my anger, to embrace self-care, and to forgive myself. The phrase “self care is health care” became more than a slogan—it became a truth I lived by.

I share this story now because I know I’m not alone. If you’re carrying guilt, shame, or fear—please know it’s okay to put yourself first. It’s okay to seek help. It’s okay to be true to who you are. Don’t wait 17 years like I did. You are worthy of love, healing, and peace.

I haven’t shared this story widely before. But today, I choose to be part of the movement to break the stigma. I choose to be #exposingdad—not for attention, but to encourage others to speak their truth and seek healing.

Thank you for letting me share mine.