What letting my dad go taught me about love

My father was intubated, so he could not speak to me.

I told him that I love him.

Instead, he slowly pointed to himself and then to me.

“Do you love me too?” I asked.

Her eyes widened ever so slightly, and she nodded gently, giving me the biggest reaction in her body. I held onto that moment as if it were something solid in a room where everything else was moving away.

It was our last moment together, mostly outdoors, before he began to slip from consciousness.

In those first few days, I told him to fight. to hold Partly because I knew he wanted to fight. I knew his work was not done. And partly because I was so far away.

I asked about his stats and relayed them to a doctor friend, hoping for any signs that he might be recovering. At first, there were some promising signs, until there weren’t.

As the days passed, his condition became somewhat less promising. The doctors had little idea what else we could try. And his body began to feel tired.

It was heartbreaking to see someone I loved so deeply, someone who had always shown me strength and was the safest place for me to grow up, weaken little by little. I felt helpless, small and isolated, as if my world was crumbling around me.

I wanted more of his warm, safe embrace. I felt more settled with him. I just wanted more time.

After some direct conversations with the doctors, it became clear that he was not going to wake up. We could have put him on life support, but he was in pain. And it was not right for me to put him in that place to avoid my own suffering.

It was probably the hardest decision I’ve ever made: removing life support. But her peace was more important than my eagerness to keep her here.

So the next time I talked to her, I whispered softly in her ear, “I know you tried. It’s okay. We’ll be okay. You can go.”

I floated that day like a dream. It felt surreal to be on the subway surrounded by people, most of whom were probably just going through a normal day, when I decided to let my dad die.

For a long time I carried that moment with a sort of stunned disbelief. How could life go on when my fissure was open? How can there be commuters, coffee runs, small talk and dinner plans when one of the most fundamental loves of my life is gone?

In the beginning, grief felt sharp and immediate. It lived near the surface. It was the pain of losing him, the shock of his absence, the disbelief that someone so central to my life could no longer be here.

Over time, grief has not disappeared, but its shape has changed. For a moment, it felt huge and consuming, as if it took up all the air in the room. There was also fear: How will I survive without him? What does that even mean?

Years later, it feels more like a quiet, familiar ache. like more Thanks for the love. I still want you here.

And somewhere in that transition, I began to understand something I didn’t see when I was in the thick of it: letting go isn’t always giving up. Sometimes it’s the most loving thing we can do.

Before my father died, I think some part of me was equated with holding on to love. A tougher fight with With not loosening my grip. Letting go felt unthinkable, almost like a betrayal.

It seems that, by insisting that it shouldn’t happen, or that it shouldn’t end this way, I can somehow change what’s happening in front of me.

But eventually, I could feel how much I ached not only for losing him, but how badly I wanted it not to be true. There is a way to express grief where we are still struggling with what has already happened.

I wanted more time. I wanted a different ending – the story could have gone another way. I wanted life to be better than that.

And it was heartbreaking on its own.

I think this is why letting go can feel so difficult in so many parts of life, not just in death. We don’t just hold people. We hold on to hopes, plans, identities, expectations, and versions of life that we thought would last or look different now.

We hold on because something is important. Because we are not ready. Because letting go can force us to face how much has changed and how much control we actually have.

Along with loss is the fear of uncertainty: How do I move forward from here? Who am I without it? What do I do now?

But sometimes, what we’re really holding onto isn’t the thing itself. It’s the hope that it could still be different, the wish that the ending could still change, and the refusal to show it because it hurts too much.

Letting go doesn’t mean that what we wanted isn’t important. It doesn’t mean we stop caring or that things suddenly seem fair.

And it’s not the same as giving up on ourselves, other people, or our dreams. Sometimes it means getting to grips with how to unfold something, so that we can come to terms with life.

This understanding has now changed the way I go through the ending, though not all at once, and not without resistance. It’s one thing to understand letting go in our mind, and it’s another thing to feel it in the body when something we like changes.

I’ve learned that before I ask myself to reflect, I often have to first notice what’s happening in my body—the tightening in my chest, the urge to clench, the urge to hold on tighter.

Meeting that response with a little gentleness helps me soften enough to ask: Am I holding on because it still feels true, or am I struggling to accept that it’s changing?

Sometimes I ask: Can I honor it to me without needing to stay exactly as it was?

And sometimes the question is simpler: What will letting go of what I’m afraid of make me feel?

I still miss my dad. I can still hug him. I still want life to give us more time.

But I no longer see that ultimate task as giving up.

I see it as love without the illusion of control. Love that can no longer fix, bargain or keep him here. Love that can only tell the truth.

you tried it’s ok we’ll be fine You can go.

I think many of us are taught to appreciate the parts of ourselves that hold on, persevere and keep fighting. And sometimes these parts are deeply needed.

But there are also moments when energy looks softer than we expect. More surrendered. More tender.

Sometimes power loosens our grip.

Sometimes letting go isn’t the absence of love, hope, or meaning, but the moment we stop asking life to be anything other than what it is.

And sometimes the healing begins there—not when we stop caring, but when we believe that holding on tighter will change the reality of what’s already here.