Grief Hungry

Everyone loves to talk about empathy until it requires them to be uncomfortable.

Real empathy isn’t “sending thoughts.” It’s sitting in the mess without needing to fix it. It’s showing up when there’s nothing to say.

On I wrote about empathy at work and why it isn’t a “soft skill” — it’s a power move. Especially when life blows up. (Link in bio)

In movies, after something shattering happens, there’s that sound. A sharp, steady ringing that swallows everything else.

That’s what it felt like, standing in the street, phone to my ear, learning my dad was gone. The life sucked out of me. The ground, unsteady. Every certainty was gone.

Seven years later, the ringing hasn’t disappeared. It’s softer now — less of a scream, more of a hum. Some days it’s background noise. Some days, it feels like I’m living inside that ringing. Muted, off-balance—like the world has been playing at half-volume for the past seven years.

And here’s the part I can’t shake: The thought that me staying small, staying sad — shrinking into that hum — would devastate him.

My Dad wasn’t a quiet man. He slurped his pasta. Spilled on his shirts. Laughed loud and took up space. The idea that I’m wasting time he doesn’t get anymore? That guts me.

It’s hard, though — to balance grief and presence. To enjoy life without someone who made it so enjoyable.

But I try. To notice the light in my kitchen at 6pm. To say yes to the invite. To make something good for dinner even when I feel hollow. To laugh without guilt. To believe joy can be a tribute, not a betrayal.

Tonight, that meant spicy lobster rigatoni. Tomatoes I grew myself — small, stubborn things that made me proud. Tomato paste, lots of garlic, red pepper flakes, sweet fresh lobster folded in at the end, and butter melting into everything like it belonged.

My dad would’ve eaten it straight from the pot, bread in hand—though he would prefer it less spicy.

I don’t want August 13 to only mark the accident. I want it to remind me to eat the good things. To grow something worth tasting. To quiet the noise, ease the haunting, and hold on to him for all the good he was, instead of holding on to the pain.

It’s tomato season. The kind where even three ripe cherry tomatoes from my deck feel like enough to build dinner around.

Just a bit of linguine, one small zucchini, garlic, olive oil, butter, and Parmesan. Nothing fancy—just what I had.

I don’t mind eating alone. Although, I’m lucky not to have to most days. But there are layers to my grief that settle in during quiet moments—like when I’m cooking just for one. I think of my Mom, I think of people who’ve lost their person—their dinner time companion, their everyday rhythm. Mine changed too, but not in that way.

Still, it feels good to soften what’s left, stir in what I can, and make something that holds.

Walked by a girl my age on the phone yesterday and heard her say “thanks grandpa,” and felt that familiar gut punch—the kind that reminds me what I’ve lost. And not just that—but how different my life is compared to many my age. I don’t know if I’ll ever come to terms with how quickly life changed, how the future I pictured got ripped away.

When the weight of it starts to settle in, I often end up in the kitchen. Sometimes it’s takeout. Last night, it was shrimp scampi—rich, buttery, nostalgic.

Cooking brings me back to 3rd grade, watching the Food Network or Travel Channel on the tiny TV in our kitchen, pretending I was the host. It’s one of the only places I still feel creative, comforted, and connected—to something, to someone, to myself.

There’s grief in the garlic, and joy in the butter. Somehow, that was enough last night.