09/23/2025
The First Break
Before Justin, before my aunts, before all the losses that would later pile up like a weight I couldn’t shake, there was my grandpa. I was fifteen when he died, and losing him was the first time I felt the full weight of grief.
Grandpa wasn’t the kind of person who wore his emotions on his sleeve, but he had a presence that made the world feel safe. Ordinary moments with him were extraordinary in their quietness. We’d sit on the couch watching Westerns, trading dumb jokes just to make each other laugh. Or we’d huddle together, trying to solve the puzzles on Wheel of Fortune, teasing each other when someone got it wrong. I didn’t know it at the time, but those small, mundane moments were carving themselves into me, shaping my sense of love and connection.
When he passed away, I hated leaving the house. Stepping outside felt like leaving him behind, as if by walking away I was betraying the closeness we’d shared. Every empty chair, every quiet hallway, every sound that used to carry his laugh became a reminder of his absence. Grief didn’t just hit me, it seeped into the spaces where he had been, into the air I breathed, into my own sense of home.
Years later, after my divorce, I moved back home. They gave me Grandpa’s room. For the first time in years, I slept well. There was something about that space, the lingering scent of him, the familiar layout, the quiet, that made me feel grounded again. It was more than comfort; it was a tether to someone who had shaped me, who had quietly been my anchor. In that room, I felt safe. I felt seen. I felt like a part of my heart that had been hollowed out was finally being held again.
Losing Grandpa taught me something I would only fully understand years later: grief isn’t always loud. It doesn’t always arrive like a storm that knocks you off your feet. Sometimes it is quiet, subtle, hidden in the spaces where the person used to be. It lives in the ordinary things, sitting on a couch, laughing at a silly joke, solving a puzzle together. It stays with you, even when you don’t notice it at first, shaping who you are, how you love, and how you feel loss.
He was my first real lesson in how to carry someone with you even when they’re gone. That lesson stayed with me as I faced later losses: the friends and family who would leave me, the people whose absence would stretch across rooms, years, and lifetimes. Grandpa showed me that you don’t have to forget someone to heal; you learn how to carry them, how to hold their presence in the small, quiet parts of life.
Even now, I find traces of him in ordinary moments: a familiar gesture, a laugh that echoes in my memory, the comforting presence of a room that feels like home. Those traces remind me that grief is not just about what’s lost, it’s about what remains, what shapes you, what teaches you to keep living while holding them close.
-Debbie
