small moment of solutidue, father's day grief

Father’s Day, the #DeadDaddyClub, and Trying to Parent Through It

June 20, 2026•9 min read

Father’s Day can be a huge trigger, especially for those of us who are unwilling card-carrying members of the #DeadDaddyClub.

And yes, I use humor here because sometimes humor is the only thing keeping the grief from fully body-slamming us in aisle seven of Target next to the “World’s Best Dad” mugs. My snarky, morbid humor — shared by my two brothers — has helped us attempt to process the pain of losing our father far too soon.

I sometimes wonder why Father’s Day can feel so triggering.

Maybe it is because it is a commercial holiday that Hallmark-type companies do an incredibly thorough job of promoting. Maybe it is because the emails, commercials, gift guides, brunch specials, and social media posts are everywhere. (Honestly, I really should probably hire their marketing person, but I digress.)

It is not as if we forget our dads are gone the other 364 days of the year.

Nope.

We know.

Of course, we know.

But Father’s Day can bring a very specific kind of jolt.

The in-your-face reminder of what could have been.

What should have been.

What used to be.

What will never be again.

It can magnify the unmet hopes, dreams, and expectations. It can magnify the gaping hole. It can magnify the version of life where your dad got to grow older, meet your children, hold your babies, answer your phone calls, show up at your house, annoy you lovingly, give unsolicited advice, or simply exist somewhere in the world.

It can magnify how you never got to know your father, parent-to-parent, or share the knowing look when the toddler does something ridiculous.

And that pain is real.

It can be sharp.

It can be quiet.

It can be debilitating.

It can sneak up on you while you are packing snacks, wiping counters, making cards, or helping your children celebrate the father or father figure in their lives.

Because grief does not take the day off just because you are also a parent.

And as a parent, it can be hard to find time to go to the bathroom alone, never mind to grieve, process emotions, and care for the parts of your heart that feel tender. It can feel even more exhausting to carry that extra emotional weight with no real release.

You may be helping your children celebrate while quietly carrying your own grief in the background.

You may feel grateful for your partner and resentful that this day exists.

You may feel joy watching your children love their dad and sadness that your dad is not here to watch it too.

You may even feel resentment toward your husband or partner, not because they have done anything wrong, but because they get to be celebrated on a day that reminds you of who you are missing.

And then, because our brains are delightful little overachievers, you may feel guilty for feeling that too.

That is a lot to hold.

So if Father’s Day feels complicated, please be gentle with yourself.

You are not doing it wrong.

You're not failing, you're feeling.

You are grieving inside a life that keeps moving. You are grieving inside a life that often feels like it only has space for big emotions from tiny young humans, and not yours.

Let Yourself Feel What Comes Up

Give yourself space to feel the emotions that come up.

There may be many.

You may feel sad, angry, grateful, resentful, numb, tender, jealous, peaceful, bitter, nostalgic, or completely confused by your own emotional weather report.

That is normal.

It is normal to feel a bazillion things at once.

Grief is not tidy. Father’s Day is not tidy. Motherhood is not tidy. Honestly, very little about being human is tidy.

You do not have to choose one emotion and make it your official feeling for the day.

You can miss your dad and love your life.

You can celebrate your husband and resent the emotional labor of the day.

You can be grateful for what you have and heartbroken over what you lost.

You can laugh at breakfast and cry in the bathroom.

You can be fine and not fine.

That is the both/and of grief.

This is the both/and of motherhood.

Remember: There Is No Time Limit on Grief

Please normalize this for yourself:

There is no time limit on grief.

Five hours or fifty years, it is valid.

All real.

All allowed.

Father’s Day can still hurt years later.

It does not mean you are stuck.

It does not mean you have not healed.

It does not mean you are “dwelling.”

It means you loved someone who mattered.

Grief changes shape over time, but that does not mean it disappears. Sometimes it becomes softer. Sometimes it becomes quieter. Sometimes it surprises you by showing up in the middle of a regular day, wearing a little Minnie Mouse party hat and carrying a megaphone.

Rude? Yes.

Normal? Also yes.

Make the Day Softer Where You Can

Give yourself permission to care for yourself in whatever way is actually available to you.

Not the Pinterest version.

Not the “book a spa day and spend six uninterrupted hours journaling by a lake” version.

The real-life version.

The version where someone needs a snack, someone cannot find their shoes, someone is asking why the sky is blue, and you are trying to remember if you signed the card.

Self-care may look small.

It may look like taking five minutes in the bathroom to breathe.

It may look like crying in the shower.

It may look like journaling before the kids wake up.

It may look like stepping outside for air.

It may look like texting the friend who gets it.

It may look like saying your dad’s name out loud.

It may look like looking at a photo.

It may look like not looking at a photo.

It may look like ordering takeout.

It may look like skipping the perfect plan.

It may look like letting the house be messy.

It may look like lowering your expectations for the day.

It may look like telling your partner, “I want to celebrate you, and I’m also feeling tender today.”

It may look like surviving the day and making it until bedtime.

It may look like building in recuperation time the next day, because sometimes the day itself takes more out of you than you realize.

Small care still counts.

Tiny pockets of tenderness still count.

Five minutes of honesty still counts.

Have a Grief Plan, Even a Loose One

You do not need a perfect plan for Father’s Day, but it can help to have a soft one.

Ask yourself:

What might I need if the day feels hard?

Who can I text if I feel tender?

Is there anything I want to avoid?

Is there anything I want to do to feel connected to my dad?

Do I need to stay off social media?

Do I need to not check email because all the “last chance for Dad!” subject lines make me want to throw my phone into the sea?

Do I need to give myself permission to leave early, pause, rest, or not participate in every single thing?

Self-care is not about making grief go away.

It is about reducing the number of ways we abandon ourselves while grief is present.

Let the Day Be Imperfect

You do not have to make Father’s Day meaningful enough.

You do not have to perform your grief.

You do not have to prove that you miss him.

You do not have to be composed.

You do not have to be endlessly gracious.

You do not have to post a tribute.

You do not have to avoid posting a tribute.

You do not have to spend the day in deep reflection if what you really need is distraction.

You do not have to be “over it” because it has been years.

You do not have to hold everyone else’s feelings perfectly while ignoring your own.

Let the day be imperfect.

Let yourself be human inside it.

My Father’s Day Self-Care Has Changed

My pre-kids Father’s Day go-to was ordering an eggplant parm sub and French fries, then bingeing as much Law & Order: SVU, Criminal Minds, Chicago PD, and Chicago Fire as my brain could handle.

A very specific grief buffet, if you will.

Now that I have kids and a husband to celebrate, I cannot always fully partake in my grief-couch-binge era.

There are cards to make. There are tiny humans to care for. There is a husband I love and want to celebrate. There is also a dad I miss deeply.

So my Father’s Day self-care looks different now.

These days, it may look like taking five-minute bathroom breaks to breathe when I need to.

Journaling before the kids get up.

Letting the tears flow if they come.

Taking a walk.

Being honest with myself about the ache instead of pretending I am above it. Sharing with my young daughters how much I miss their grandpa, my dad.

And sometimes, it looks like focusing on my husband and daughters and reveling in their beautiful relationship.

Sometimes that hurts because it reminds me of what I lost and of what they lost before they could even ever experience it.

And sometimes it heals something in me because it looks so much like the relationship I had.

That is grief too.

The hurt and the comfort.

The ache and the gratitude.

The missing and the witnessing.

The both/and.

A Gentle Reminder for Father’s Day

If Father’s Day is hard for you, I hope you give yourself permission to make it softer.

Take the five-minute bathroom break.

Cry in the shower if you need to.

Step outside for air.

Say his name.

Text the friend who gets it.

Share your feelings with your partner.

Stay off social media.

Eat the comfort food.

Let the day be imperfect.

You do not have to be fine.

You do not have to perform grief.

You do not have to make the day meaningful enough.

You are allowed to feel what you feel while still showing up for the people who need you.

And if all you can do is move through the day with a little more honesty and a little less pressure, that counts too.

You are not doing it wrong.

You are feeling something real.

I’d Love to Hear From You

What has helped you move through Father’s Day?

Do you have a ritual, a survival strategy, a comfort show, a food, a person, or a tiny pocket of care that helps you get through?

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"Healing the world, one heart at a time."