Becoming a Parent Without Them Here

There is a particular kind of grief that arrives quietly, often unnoticed by the outside world.

It comes not at the moment of death, but later.
When life moves forward.
When something beautiful begins.

For me, it arrived when I became a parent.

My dad died before I had my children. And while I had grieved many parts of him, and already started to learn how to live in a world without him, becoming a mother reshaped that grief entirely. It gave it new language, new sharp edges, new questions.

And while this is my experience of losing a parent, I know this feeling can live in many relationships. It might be a grandparent, a guardian, or someone else who helped raise you. Someone you had always imagined would be there, steady and present, as you stepped into your own role as a parent.

It is a strange layering of emotions. A deep, expansive love sitting right beside an equally deep longing.

There are moments that feel almost impossible to hold all at once.

I find myself wondering what kind of grandfather he would have been.
Not in a passing way, but in a detailed, living way.

Would he have been playful? Gentle? Would he have had endless patience, or would he have been the kind to sneak treats and bend the rules? What parts of him would my children have brought out?

There is a grief in not knowing.

There is also a quiet ache in not being seen in this version of myself.
In not being able to call him and say, You won’t believe what just happened today.
In not hearing his voice say, You’re doing a good job.

Parenting can feel both full and empty in the same breath.

There are days I feel a pang of jealousy when I see others supported by their parents. Not in a resentful way, but in a tender, human way. A noticing of what is missing. Of the ease that can come with having someone who knows you so deeply, who can step in, who can reassure you, who has walked this path before you.

And then, there are moments that feel like small gifts.

A look on my child’s face that feels familiar.
A gesture. A tone. A way of being.

And I think, There you are.

It’s not the same, of course. It doesn’t replace the absence. But it softens it. It reminds me that love doesn’t disappear, it transforms. It moves through generations in ways we don’t always expect.

As a death doula, I have the privilege of sitting with people in their grief, and I’ve come to understand that grief is not something that stays still. It evolves as we do.

We often think of grief as tied to a moment, a loss, a specific time in our lives. But in truth, grief reintroduces itself over and over again. It asks to be felt in new contexts, through new identities.

Becoming a parent is one of those moments.

It can reopen grief in ways that feel surprising, even disorienting. And sometimes there is a quiet question underneath it all:

Why does this still hurt?

The answer is simple, but not easy.

Because love is still here.

Because the relationship didn’t end, it changed.

Because becoming a parent can deepen our understanding of what we received, what we didn’t receive, and what we wish we could still access.

There is no right way to hold this.

Some days it feels heavy.
Some days it feels distant.
Some days it arrives out of nowhere, in the middle of an otherwise ordinary moment.

And all of it is valid.

If you are parenting without someone who mattered deeply to you, whether that was a parent, grandparent, guardian, or another steady presence, you are not alone in this experience. Even if it often feels invisible. Even if it feels like something that’s hard to put into words.

There is space for the longing.
There is space for the gratitude.
There is space for the complexity of holding both.

And there is space for the quiet ways they still live on, in you, and now, in your children.