Trigger warning: This article contains mentions of death.
I HAVE never been expressive with my emotions. I don’t like being asked if I’m okay, and I’m unable to talk about my feelings without inserting a joke in the conversation. It’s hard for me to say “I love you” or “I miss you” without deliberately misspelling these words in chat, to save myself the cringe. I also rarely think too far into the future to fantasize about what my life would be like.
Yet, the night my dad died, all my “unfulfilled milestones” immediately came crashing down on me.
“Daddy won’t be at my graduation.”
“Who’s going to give me away at my wedding?”
“My kids are never going to meet their lolo.”
For someone who has never earnestly thought about marriage and kids yet, that night marked the start of encounters with emotions I’d hardly considered prior—and when I thought the wake and funeral were difficult, coming home felt worse.
Suddenly, seemingly insignificant things made me pause in the middle of my day: the alcohol spray bottle by the front door, the head seat at the dining table, the left side of the couch, the box of caramel tarts, and the Mr. Chips packs—spaces my dad used to occupy, objects my dad once held onto.
Even hearing my dad’s favorite songs pushed me to ponder his absence—like that time “Hurts So Good” by John Mellencamp played on the car radio on the way to school, or that day “With or Without You” by U2 played at a cafe I was studying at. I would also tense up when I found myself doing things that my dad would scold me for, like slamming the car door with too much force or forgetting to unplug the TV at night.
While these instances began as moments of discomfort, I eventually found myself able to simply feel.
To outright acknowledge that I miss my dad. To admit to myself that I’m not feeling too good, and perhaps, to candidly talk to someone about it.
I would go to my brother and have hour-long conversations about how I felt, or sit next to my mom and reminisce about the times that my dad was still with us. I made it a point to text my best friend and tell her I’m having a hard time, and let myself get used to the feeling of being heard.
The past few months have not been easy, but if there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that emotions should not be viewed as threats. Talking about them is not a sign of weakness, but a marker that something—or someone—deeply mattered.
Through it all, I’ve grown to be grateful for the little things that allow me to cherish my dad’s memory and feel his immortalized presence even in his physical absence.
And so, Daddy, I’ll keep looking at the spray bottle you once used with fondness. I’ll continue cherishing the head seat at the dining table and the left side of the couch where you used to sit. I’ll keep reminiscing about the times after dinner when we would eat our favorite caramel tarts together, and the times I’d carefully ask you if I could have a bag of your Mr. Chips.
I’ll keep listening to the songs you raised me and kuya with. And yes, I’ll close the car door with moderate strength and unplug the TV before going to bed. Para hindi ka na magalit.
That way, I can continue seeing you.
Sab is a third-year Interdisciplinary Studies student, with tracks in Psychology and Development Studies: Development and the Law, at the Ateneo de Manila University. As a campus journalist, she dedicates her work to analyzing the nuances of life within the University, and is passionate about women’s rights and social justice.
Editor’s Note: The views and opinions expressed by the opinion writer do not necessarily state or reflect those of the publication.
