Technically, it’s been ten years since my father passed, but really, it feels more like three. Maybe it’s because I’ve stopped blacking out the memories. Maybe it’s because I don’t cry anymore when I say his name. Or maybe it’s because I’ve finally accepted that he’s gone.
Every person’s relationship with death is different. In the ocean that grief lives in, there is a wide range of waves that wash over every respective person. Anger, fear, or numbness, but the most inexplicable feeling that comes about is a deep sense of loss. A sensation so devastating it takes your breath away. In many ways, it’s similar to drowning. One memory topples another as you remember a life you lived that you will never get back. A version of your family that will never be the same.
I could lie to you and tell you it gets better, but really? It never does. Death is never a pleasant topic, and the feelings that come with it never dissipate. It never gets better. But it does get easier to manage. You start with learning the verbiage. “Mom is, Dad was.” “My mother lives in the Bay Area.” Painfully and very obviously pointing out that it’s just my mom. You learn to take five plates instead of six, and that sting that comes with it fades. It’s the reality of the situation.
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But grief management isn’t easy. Each year we have a ritual in our religion where my family and I go to a body of water and throw rice in, praying that my father’s afterlife is peaceful. But that really was the only ritual my family enforced. When I was in my 20s, my favorite routine around the holidays was to escape.
To run as far as I could from whatever I was feeling. There was no journaling. No therapy. It was drinking, partying, and dates. Endless dates that had no meaning or purpose. I thought my lifeboat in this ocean of loss was hedonism when really it was a small twig that barely kept me afloat. I truly was drowning for so many years.
Moving away from Southern California gave me the space to process my grief, emotionally and physically. I wasn’t driving past his old hospital every weekend or eating at his favorite food joints. I could figure out who am I without my past looming over me. What can be my relationship with my father now that I am alone? What can be my own rituals around the holidays?
Obon Festival
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Ritualism with death is found in so many communities around the world. Of course, there is the famous Dia De Los Muertos, where families celebrate the lives of the dead. But there are several others, like the Obon Festival in Japan where people go back to their hometowns and spend it with their loved ones.
They dance, light giant bonfires, and send down lanterns in the river honoring their ancestors. In China, they have the Hungry Ghost Festival, where families place food out for hungry spirits who have passed.
What is a common through line with all these rituals is community. There is no better way to acknowledge what we have lost than by celebrating what we still do have. That emptiness can never be filled, and no one will ever truly understand what you have been through. But community is such a beautiful way of reminding us that there are so many people in this world who are willing to meet you halfway if you let them in.
This year, I let my friends know the first week of November that the holidays are tough for me and that, though I’ll be a lot more quiet, the company would be appreciated. Long walks and dinners at cozy restaurants ensued. I’ve had people texting me throughout the season to see if I was doing okay.
I threw myself into my dance classes in a way that I hadn’t before. This was the first year my mother and I could have open conversations about my father. His complexities. His kindness and, most importantly, how he would have wanted us to live.
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I have been feeling his overwhelming sense of gratitude over how well he has kept me protected over the years. Whenever I tried to run away, I always had someone to put me on the right track. Usually, it was a friend who saw that I was just a girl shooting blanks in the dark, trying to figure this all out.
I certainly still haven’t figured out dating. I haven’t fallen in love yet, and though I have been disappointed more than probably the average person, I am grateful I dodged all those bullets and that if I just look up when I’m falling in that ocean of grief, there are multiple hands who are willing to pull me up. I am loved. I feel so loved.
My ritual for grief is celebrating the folks in my life who have been there for me throughout these years. I’m also celebrating myself. The garden I have nurtured within myself. I’m not running away from the pain I’ve felt over the years; no, not at all. I’m running to it and addressing what’s hurting.
Can a yoga class bring some movement through grief? Can a long, silly phone call with an old friend remind me that life moves on? I keep myself curious about what my needs are and give myself grace. Something I never gave myself when I was younger.
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I’d like to end with this passage I found miraculously on Reddit.
“As for grief, you'll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it's some physical thing. Maybe it's a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it's a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.
In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don't even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything...and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.
Somewhere down the line, and it's different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O'Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you'll come out.”
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The pair often says they’re two sides of the same coin. Skylar is an Aquarius. She attended art school, paints, and loves poetry. She’s more than happy to let the couple’s management firm and agency, Kensington Grey, handle their admin work. And, she loves to sleep in. Temi, on the other hand, wakes up early. He’s a Virgo. He loves a to-do list and regularly checks in on the couple’s brand partnerships spreadsheet to make sure everything is on track.
Because his storytelling was steeped in his love of technology, he didn’t always think of himself as a creative person. “Where I [am] the dreamer who wants to pluck things out of the sky and spend all day with my head in the clouds, Temi [is] so good at grounding me and helping me figure out how to make things make sense on paper. We just work together in such a complimentary way,” Skylar says.
It’s been more than six years since Brooklyn-based couple Temi and Skylar started dating, and nearly four since they cemented their working relationship. On TikTok and Instagram, the couple’s travel, fashion, and home content regularly rack up hundreds of thousands of views. They’ve worked with brands such as Coach, Aesop, Away, and Liquid IV, bringing their vibrant perspectives to every campaign they execute. Still, nearly two years since both Temi and Skylar committed to full-time content creation and creative directing, the couple says their romantic connection remains their priority.
“We told each other we would much rather go back to full-time jobs and preserve our relationship than to be full-time freelancers, barely getting a night's rest [and] barely kissing each other because we're so busy shooting,” Skylar says.
Working from home can make it hard to separate work from personal life for any entrepreneur. It can be even more challenging when your business partner is also your lover. Temi and Skylar had already used couples therapy as a tool to help them effectively communicate with one another. When they ran into challenges while working together, their therapist helped them set physical boundaries to help combat the issues.
"We told each other we would much rather go back to full-time jobs and preserve our relationship than to be full-time freelancers, barely getting a night's rest [and] barely kissing each other because we're so busy shooting."
“It actually took us doing very specific physical things to create boundaries between work and play in our relationship,” Skylar says. “So, for instance, we will only have conversations about work when we're out of bed or we're at the table or in the office. Initially, when we started, we had to light a candle to say that, 'Okay, this is a space where we're connecting, we’re not talking about work.' We needed really hard boundaries at the top. And then it became a little bit more organic.”
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“A lot of it happens during the day in the midst of work. We'll stop and we'll hug. Or we’ll slow dance in the kitchen,” she says. “Sometimes it's hard to set a whole date night when you have 7,000 things going on. So, we must grasp these moments and check in when we can. And I think it's become so organic to us that I actually didn't even realize how often we do it. But all day long, we're like, 'Are you good? I felt like your energy shifted,' because we're best friends, we just know. We just feel it happen.”
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Featured image by Cj Hart @hartbreak