The morning my dad died is etched in my body more than in my memory. It’s not just a date on a calendar, but rather a feeling that still lives under my skin. I can close my eyes and still sense the stillness of that room, the rhythm of his breathing, and the way time seemed to stretch and collapse all at once.

My siblings, Danette & Jeremiah, and I had spent the week by his side in hospice. Each day blurred into the next: small cups of coffee gone cold, whispered updates from nurses, quiet tears in hallways, and that constant ache of waiting. Hospice has its own kind of rhythm, slow and sacred. It’s a place where the living learn to let go, one breath at a time.

At first, there were moments that almost felt peaceful. We brought his favorite blanket from home, played the music he loved, and sat around sharing stories about who Dad was before he got sick,  the man who loved fishing, made everyone laugh at the most inappropriate times, and could fix anything with his hands and a little stubbornness.

But as the days went on, things began to shift. His breathing changed. His skin cooled. The nurses gently explained “the signs,” but nothing truly prepares you to watch someone you love fade from the physical world. There’s this helplessness, like your love should be strong enough to hold them here, even when you know it’s time to let them go.

The three of us took turns sitting with him and giving each other space to cry. We’d step into the hallway to catch our breath, then find ourselves pulled back in by the sound of a monitor or the whisper of movement. It’s impossible to leave when your heart is tethered to a hospital bed.

That morning felt different. The air was heavier, quieter. The sunlight streamed through the window in that gentle, forgiving way that only happens at the very end of things. I remember looking at my brother and sister, and we didn’t even have to speak, we knew July 1st was going to be the day. The day our daddy was taken from this world. 

We sat close, holding his hands, telling him it was okay. We said the things you never want to say out loud but somehow find the strength to: that we loved him, that he could rest now, that we would be okay. His breathing slowed, then softened, then stopped.

And in that moment, the world didn’t crash or explode. It simply… stilled.

There was a peace in that room that words can’t touch. The nurse came in quietly, checked his pulse, and nodded. We just sat there. None of us wanted to move, but then as if at the drop of a hat, the floodgates opened and the tears began flowing. I remember tracing the outline of his hand with my thumb, memorizing it, like maybe if I could memorize it deeply enough, I wouldn’t forget what it felt like to be his daughter.

Grief arrived quickly, but so did gratitude. Gratitude that he wasn’t in pain anymore. Gratitude that we got to be there, together, for his final moments. Gratitude that even in death, love didn’t leave the room, it just changed form.

It’s been years, but I still go back to that day often. Not to relive the pain, but to remember the love that filled that space. Watching my dad take his last breath taught me something about how I want to live: slower, softer, more present, more grateful.

If you’ve been through something similar, if you’ve sat in that sacred space between life and death, you know what I mean. It changes you. You learn that grief isn’t a sign of weakness; it’s proof of love that still has nowhere to go.

That day was the hardest of my life. But it was also the most honest, the most human. Because love and loss are forever intertwined, and I wouldn’t trade a single moment of that week for a lifetime without him.

If you’re walking through hospice right now, or replaying your own last goodbye, please know you’re not alone. There’s no right way to do this. There’s only your way. It’s your love, your story, your heart trying its best to hold on and let go at the same time.

Rest in Peace, Daddy.