When the Anchor Is Gone: Grief, Seasons, and the Loss of a Parent
As the air shifts and the days shorten, I feel my father’s absence more sharply. Fall has always carried a certain melancholy, but since losing my dad to pancreatic cancer three years ago, this season now hums with a deeper grief.
My dad was my anchor — tender and loving, complicated and human, a man who worked hard and played music with soul, who laughed loudly, lived fully, and carried strength and gentleness. He was always there, like a steady presence I could tether myself to when the waters of life threatened to pull me under.
And then, at 6:23 a.m. on a September morning, that anchor slipped away.
Each year, as the anniversary of his death approaches, the waves of grief rise again. My brother and I gather at Iroquois Park, one of his favorite places, as the sun crests the horizon. We play the music he loved and let it carry us, remembering the man who taught us that life could be both strong and tender, heavy and light.
Three years in, grief has shifted. In those early days, it felt like drowning — like no matter how hard I fought, I couldn’t find air. Now, more often, it feels like laying in the ocean, letting the waves lift and lower me, carried by a rhythm that isn’t mine to control. But storms still come. Sometimes unannounced, sometimes predicted, they churn up my heart until it feels like it’s been shattered into pieces all over again.
I still catch myself reaching for the phone, wanting to tell him something funny, or share a small victory, or just hear his voice. Then comes the sharp realization: I can’t. The ache of that absence is both ordinary and unbearable.
Fall reminds me of that truth in its own language — that everything changes, everything must be let go. Where there is life, there is death, as surely as summer yields to winter. Watching the leaves ignite into flame before letting go of their branches, I see my dad. I see all of us. Brilliant, temporary, falling back to the earth that made us. There’s a strange beauty in that inevitability, even as it breaks my heart.
I remember his strength — chopping wood in the heat of summer, carrying rolls of carpet up stairs, or standing firm between me and whatever he thought might harm me. I remember his fragility too, watching pancreatic cancer ravage his once-strong body. I remember his last breath, my hand smoothing his hair as I hummed “Amazing Grace,” the room forever imprinted with the sound of an ending.
Grief unanchors you. It makes you question everything: who you are, where you belong, how you want to live, what really matters, and with whom you choose to spend your fleeting time. Losing a parent isn’t something you “get over.” It reshapes you. It makes you into someone new, someone who carries both absence and presence inside them at once.
To those who are grieving, I want you to know: you will never feel fully okay with your parent’s death. That’s the truth. You will never be the same. But over time, the waves may soften. You may begin to notice the small gifts that still surround you — the warmth of the sun on your face, the glide of a bird overhead, the smell of rain in the air, the sound of a baby laughing, the taste of a recipe made by someone long ago. These moments don’t erase grief, but they remind us that life still carries beauty, even when loss has carved us open.
As fall arrives, I imagine my dad’s voice carried in the crisp wind, singing the Eagles: “Take it Easy.” I imagine him in the cycle of the leaves, in the river’s flow, in the rising and setting sun. I imagine him as both anchor and wave, both presence and absence, teaching me still.
To those grieving this season: you are not alone. I sit with you in your loss. May the changing leaves remind you that while everything is temporary, the love we’ve known colors us forever.
To help connect with grief and the cycles of life, you might try this simple nature-based practice:
🍂 Fallen Leaf Practice
Go outside and find a fallen autumn leaf.
Hold it in your hand. Notice its colors, textures, veins, and edges.
Reflect on its cycle: how it grew, flourished, and is now returning to the earth.
Connect this cycle to your own grief — a reminder that life, love, and loss are all part of the same rhythm.
When ready, release the leaf back to the ground, offering your grief to the earth to hold for you.
Through this practice, you can feel both the weight of loss and the beauty of impermanence — a small reminder that grief, like the leaves, moves in cycles, and that even in letting go, there is grace, remembrance, and connection.