A Gentle Goodbye Pt 2: Grief didn’t come as expected. Something else did.

They said I’d be crushed. Instead, I became spacious...but why?

Narrated by author:

If you have recently started following ✨MindShift Musings✨ and missed Part 1 of A Gentle Goodbye, you may not know that this is a highly unusual, very personal, and vulnerable writing for me, but I felt it essential for me to share for many different reasons that I won’t go into here.

That said, if this isn’t necessarily your kind of thing, bear with me through this sharing of Part 2 after which I will resume with writings that will be different in nature.

Meanwhile, welcome! I’m so happy that you’ve chosen to walk with me for a little - or maybe even, a long - while.

~Alecia

A Gentle Goodbye, No Funeral Required

We didn’t have a funeral service for my dad. When we talked, he said that he didn’t want one. They never felt right to him. They cost way too much money and there was nothing comforting to him - nor myself - about that process which isn’t unusual for us because we’re typically not traditional people.

I gently reminded him that these services wouldn’t be for him because he’d be gone, but for the living who are left behind and may need closure. I told him that I would likely respect his wishes because I felt the same, but would reserve the right to hold one if it felt important to do so.

He knows that most things I do aren’t necessarily about “the thing”, as it about reaching people in a positive way to make a difference, possibly even a ✨mindshift✨.

I have spoken at funerals which were always different from the norm such as speaking the truth about a loved one who died an addict during a time when we didn’t yet know that we were at ground zero on the very front edge of the opioid wave.

People would often comment afterwards saying, “This was the best funeral I’ve ever been to!” They always prefaced those statements saying they felt awkwardly unsure sharing such a strange thought at such a tender time. But they found the way we did funeral services to be uplifting and genuine instead of sad and morose and wanted to share what was on their heart.

I spoke about the imperfection in ALL of us as humans reminding people not to feel resentful toward the deceased's imperfections, nor to judge others.

When judging others, it’s important to remember that if we had been born with their genetics, raised in their culture, and lived through their exact experiences, we might have become just like them.

We are all shaped by a complex mix of biology, upbringing, and life events. What’s in them is in us too — the good, the bad, the ugly, the beautiful, and the indifferent.

But I do love celebration of life ceremonies and have officiated those too. Of course, we’ll have one for dad some day after enough time has passed for the heavier emotions of loss to subside so we can “celebrate” him with true hearts.

Early on, I learned that while I can officiate these ceremonies, if it’s too soon, those who were closest to the deceased often have to fake their way through the celebration of their loved one because it’s hard to have a heart that’s light enough to actually ✨celebrate✨ as they continue to mourn their loss and heal their grief.

Why am I not in a heap on the floor?

I've been a bit taken aback by my grieving process since his passing, as it feels very different from what I've borne witness to in others over the years while offering condolences at funerals for friends and their loved ones.

For the time being, I seem spared deep waves of grief as my heart is still so full of grace and gratitude.

But that’s not normal, is it?

My heart is bursting with gratitude for so much, as he was a jolly, gentle man. He was my spackle - he anticipated and filled in the places that I couldn’t fill in for myself.

I’ve written about him before and described him on his birthday as this:

”He's the lover of antiquities, the inventor of thingamajigs, the escaper of escape rooms, the herder and cuddler of cats, the lover of Imax theaters, the master fisher of ponds, the keeper of the trails, the lover of ancient mysteries, the voracious reader of books, the beachcomber extraordinaire, the silent type who automatically fills in those spaces before I even know they need filled, and the man that woke me up to the fact that there's much more to life than we've been led to believe.”

He was a great storyteller. He lived a long, healthy, amazingly adventurous out-of-the-box life filled with captivating stories from foreign lands that people loved to gather around to listen to.

Had he gone on to live under the most recent circumstances, he wouldn’t have felt at ease, but he would have turned inward to cultivate contentment…for that is our way.

He would’ve been more dependent on us than he wanted to be as he would begin to lose his independence and dignity when his care required more of our time and presence. We would’ve been more than happy to be there for him with open hearts, just as he would’ve done for us.

Travel meant everything to him. The wanderlust he passed on to me—the love of foreign lands, people, and new experiences—was something neither of us could indulge while I was caring for him. He never liked that thought. He mentioned it often, always reminding me that he wanted me to be free to explore, to go, and to do while trying to find ways to make it so.

So, why am I not in a heap on the floor or constantly in tears?

Life, Death, and What We Believe

So I ask myself: why do I seem to be doing so well, at least compared to what I’ve seen over the course of my life?

“Doing well” — that’s always struck me as such a strange phrase, especially when people ask, “How’s he or she doing?” What does that even mean? And by what criteria is it judged?

Does it mean someone isn’t visibly emotional — which often makes others uncomfortable — and so they assume that person must not be doing well?

I’ve thought a lot about that. And maybe the best way I can answer — for myself, anyway — is to look at why I feel okay, even now.

First, we were fortunate enough to have had all the important conversations — nothing left unsaid, no lingering questions or unresolved feelings. That kind of closure is rare and I don’t take it for granted.

Second, I’ve come to understand that grief doesn’t always look how people expect. It doesn’t always show up in tears or silence or collapse or retreat. Sometimes it’s quiet acceptance. Sometimes it’s gratitude folded into the sadness.

I also had time to prepare myself for what would no longer be once he was gone.

Sometimes, while he was still alive, the tears would come — not because he was gone, but because I knew what we had was coming to an end. The routines we cherished — me cooking dinner, playing a game together, then settling in to watch one of our favorite shows — they were slowly becoming memories even while we were still living them.

In those moments, it felt like I was already mourning him. But over time, I had a quiet conversation with myself: He’s still here. You don’t have to grieve him yet.

I came to understand that while it was wise to acknowledge where we were heading, I didn’t need to live inside that loss before it arrived. I could walk with a kind of balance — holding lightly the truth of what was coming, but also the gratitude that he was still right there beside me.

I’ve often wondered how much that helped me in the end.

Next, one of the greatest influences on my current state of being is our shared personal and spiritual philosophy on life and death. We believe that life is a cycle of death and re-birth; birth is the beginning of death and death is the beginning of new birth.

In harmony with the scientific law of conservation of energy — which teaches that energy can neither be created nor destroyed — we trust that it doesn’t die, but simply changes form, quietly transmuting from one state of being to another.

So while I will deeply miss him in the physical, I feel there’s some energetic aspect of him still here with me on some level, but it feels like more than just the memory of him.

What we resist, persists.

Generally, I have this unique ability to not resist what is, regardless of how uncomfortable I am with it nor how much it challenges me. I see everything in life as an opportunity to learn, grow, and heal myself.

I typically try to embrace whatever comes my way because, regardless of how challenging it is, I believe such circumstances happen FOR me, not TO me. They present themselves as opportunities to clear the dross from my inner world while learning from whatever I’m experiencing so I can transmute it to share with others to help them also be at ease.

As a spiritual - not religious - being, I’ve learned to trust and surrender while not steeping myself in the “Why me?” mentality of victimhood. This was a key shift in my personal psychology decades ago that has freed me up in so many ways since. I find it so very empowering.

That sense of empowerment has softened something in me. I have no inner resistance to what this is or how it happened. There’s nothing in me that expects it to be anything other than what it has been.

I think that emptiness is key in my current process. I learned a long time ago that grief and loss is more about me being sad that someone is no longer edifying my life and fulfilling my needs. This is where our unconditional love for one another came in to free each other up as we tried not to have such needs and expectations as much as possible.

“Love” and attachments

Buddhist teachings like The Four Noble Truths and The Eightfold Path have taught me to work on not being attached - not to grip, grasp, nor cling. I try my best to live that way even as it relates to death.

I also don’t want my very human grief and mournful unwillingness to accept what is to tether another soul’s energy to this earth simply because I can’t let go. My father deserves, metaphorically, to be free — to soar amongst the stars he so loved to gaze at in wonder. Just accepting that brings such a profound sense of freedom and release.

The thought that unconditional love—freely given and freely received—can soften the edges of grief to bring peace after loss is so deeply compelling and comforting.

I muse on why my father’s transition didn’t shatter me — and it might be because our spiritual contract and love felt complete. Nothing was left unsaid and my spirit was prepared to let go without clinging out of a need to have my future emotional needs met through him.

In the West, we don’t tend to accept death very gracefully. I believe we often prolong life well past the point of a natural death, clinging to it at all costs. We extend it with pharmaceuticals, medical interventions, machines, and senior facilities — where, too often, people suffer far too long, alone in body, mind, and spirit.

Why? Often under the guise of wanting them to live as long as possible — but really, it’s because we can’t bring ourselves to let them go.

We hold on long past the moment they might have slipped away more gently with dignity and ease. Somehow, we’ve woven into the fabric of our culture the belief that letting go means we didn’t love them enough — when in truth, it may be one of the deepest expressions of love there is.

In my heart, it was an honor to release him gently, standing beside him with my hand on his heart — knowing he would have done the same for me.

I feel that we all have the right to live —and die— the way we wish. I try not to interfere with that process even when I’m feeling conflicted by the desire of the one I’m letting go.

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A stupa is a Buddhist shrine

I’m not in here; I’m everywhere

The renown spiritual leader, Thich Nhat Hanh, once said:

‘Please do not build a stupa for me. Please do not put my ashes in a vase, lock me inside, and limit who I am. I know this will be difficult for some of you.

If you must build a stupa though, please make sure that you put a sign on it that says, ‘I am not in here.’ In addition, you can also put another sign that says, ‘I am not out there either,’ and a third sign that says, ‘If I am anywhere, it is in your mindful breathing and in your peaceful steps.’

This is how I feel about dad passing.

His ashes will be lovingly scattered in some of his favorite places around the world — returned to the landscapes he cherished — until there is nothing left to release and he has been fully given back to the earth from which he came.

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For now, my heart is full

My dad would be happy that I’m writing again. He loved watching my Substack numbers rise. He knew how important it was for me to try to make a difference to others by providing guidance and perspectives that might be helpful in easing hearts and minds during these very heavy, confusing times.

Like me, dad relished every person who clicked to share this space to commune with me. He loved me so deeply that he shared in my joy. As a fellow world adventurer, he was delighted to watch the map fill with state and country numbers of subscribers — just as I am — because I consider it an honor to genuinely connect with others.

In closing, I want to thank you for bearing witness to a major event in my life as I process in writing what it has meant to me. Obviously, there will be layers and layers to process as I learn what forever really means.

If and when those waves of grief wash over me in new ways, I’ll be there to honor them — allowing them to move through me, and even linger for a while, if they must.

Emotions are like storms; they blow in and they blow out. Merely bear witness to what they’re doing inside of you. They’ll change positions in your body over time and will give you hints as to what your needs are if you’ll just pay attention to them.

But for now, my heart is overflowing with gratitude for the memories I have of having such a joyful, magical human in my life who taught me so much through his example more than his words.

Not only was he in my life, but I also had the honor of being his one and only child —his very lucky daughter— whom he loved so much and was so very proud of.

To me, there’s no greater honor than that.

And so it is…

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P.S.
I’m deeply aware — and empathetic — to the many kinds of relationships people have, and the wide spectrum of experiences surrounding death. I say this with full recognition that what I’m sharing is my story — my fingerprint — a singular moment in my life. I know that not everyone has the grace or circumstances to experience loss in this way, and for some, reading this may stir grief, pain, or even resentment.

I know some of you have been deeply traumatized by loss — grieving not just for years, but sometimes for decades. I’m so sorry. My heart truly goes out to you. ❤️‍🩹

I simply wanted to be honest about what this experience has been for me. I haven’t seen it reflected in the world — not in life, not in media — though I’ve been blessed to witness glimpses of it in others. But this… this was my own, and I felt it deserved to be named.

All of this is to say that THIS is exactly what makes me so grateful for where I am. I will savor it for as long as I can while continuing to work myself from the inside which has always been my way.

As I worked my way through this piece, the emotions flowed through. This has been an amazingly cathartic process to steep myself in.

Thank you again for holding space and bearing witness to my process.

P.S.S. I ran into this short reel on Facebook and couldn’t find it on YouTube to embed it here. It’s a reel where Sadhguru is talking about losing someone and the feelings around it being joy and/or misery. Here’s a link if you’re interested in watching it.

Cherish them for what they were in your life.


If this sharing resonated with you in some way or stirred something up in you, I’d love to hear about it. If you have wisdom to share about life, death, or processes beyond or in between, I’d love to hear those too. Please share.