ALTUS AIR FORCE BASE, Okla. -- The holidays have a way of magnifying everything: the joy, the laughter, the togetherness, but also the quiet ache of those who are no longer here.
As I lay in bed, the squeaks of the ceiling fan lulling me to sleep, the warmth of the gaudy burgundy and gold comforter pulled up to my eyes, I feel my grandmother’s hand gently touch my shoulder. “I thought you were at work. What are you doing here?” I say. She doesn’t say a word. Just guides me from my bed to the living room, where I see family members who aren’t normally around. My uncle “Pep,” my aunt Melanie, my cousins Trey and Jennifer. “What’s going on?” I manage to utter. Silence, still. Finally, Granny Mama, my great grandmother blurts out, “Miyah, your daddy died.” “How?" I squeak. “In a car accident.”
I didn’t say anything after that. I went to my grandmother, sat on her lap and placed my face in her chest. I didn’t cry. I didn’t say anything. I just lay there and shook. I remember my family telling me of all the good memories they had with my father, followed by “I’m sorry’s,” and “he loved you so much,” but as a kid, what does that mean?
Like my father, I tend to have trouble keeping surprises to myself, and luckily before his passing I had gotten my valentine basket a week early. It was filled with candy and cheaply-made toys, but my favorite was a goofy-looking, dark, brown teddy bear. I would cling to it while I sat next to my grandmother’s stereo, listening to Luther Vandross’ ‘Dance With My Father’ on repeat. She finally gathered the courage to turn the song off and ask me why I was torturing myself. I didn’t have an answer. It finally happened, weeks after his passing I had finally cried.
That teddy bear became my refuge. It wasn’t pretty, but neither was the pain I was feeling. It didn’t judge my tears or ask me to explain why I felt numb one moment and shattered the next. It simply existed, just like me, in a world that no longer made sense.
Grief is strange like that. It doesn’t follow a timeline or play by the rules. Some days, it hides in the corners of your mind, quiet and still. Other days, it crashes into you, raw and overwhelming, pulling you under like a riptide.
Almost 17 years later, I’ve learned that healing doesn’t mean forgetting. It means finding ways to carry the loss with you, gently and intentionally, instead of letting it carry you away. That scraggly teddy bear, who I unfortunately no longer have, was a reminder that it’s okay to hurt, okay to cry, and okay to lean on the small, silly things that bring you comfort.
Grief changes you, but it doesn’t have to define you. It’s part of your story, but not the whole of it. As I’ve grown, I’ve realized my father’s love didn’t leave when he did. It lingers in the music and the memories, a love I carry with me as I keep moving forward.
In many ways, grief mirrors the resilience and discipline of military life. Just as service members learn to carry their burdens with strength and purpose, grief teaches us to bear the weight of loss without letting it break us.