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Loss and Grief: Two Disney Songs on Repeat

Coping with loss

Every car ride in my dad’s black Nissan in 1989 had the song “Part of Your World” cued up in the tape deck where I had the chance to belt out each and every word, using Barbie to act out the scene in Ariel’s cave on the dashboard (yes, it was the 80’s and yes kids could ride shotgun in the front seat, without a seatbelt. Yes, I was eight years old. Again, the 80’s).


The song succinctly transitioned into “Under the Sea,” and I would continue an awe inspiring vocal performance with new interpretive dance moves, Barbie included, while my dad would quote Sebastian and give his best impression. To this DAY, I can hear him say: teenagers, give them an inch and they swim all over you.


And now as a child free adult, I can look back and wonder how on earth this man allowed his daughter to play, on repeat for an entire year (maybe even more), two songs from The Little Mermaid. ONLY TWO. He enjoyed her singing, encouraged her to keep singing, loved her so much that having her not do that wasn’t an option. The irony of our sharing in The Little Mermaid is he never wanted me to NOT be me: his loud, boisterous, rule breaking daughter. He never wanted me to lose my voice. He was so damn good for that. He would have done anything to have me smile and know I was not just part of his world, I was in fact, his whole world.


It is these seeming insignificant moments where my eyes well up and I am overwhelmed with emotions, not the sadness of grief but the emotions that come with loving someone with all your existence.

Today, marks ten years without him here. Ten years without my dad. Ten years of not having anyone say: I am proud of you, honey. Ten years of learning who I am without half of my DNA. Ten years of navigating through grief and onto the other side of a prolonged, deeply painful, sad-girl era. I have had ten birthdays without a birthday card and will not get to see my dads handwriting on a fresh holiday envelop ever again.


Ten years of tears because I loved him so much and because he loved his only child more than he could ever explain or show, and Disney songs on repeat were tantamount to unconditional love.


It is this gesture of jamming out to a Disney song with my dad and my Barbies, having tea parties in a Popples tent and dance parties with costumes that I will forever take with me, they encapsulate the powerful, unwavering love between a father and a daughter.


I am so blessed to have a dad who wants me to shine, even when he isn’t here with me. And yes, I sometimes I use the present tense because I HAVE a dad and I will always have a dad; he just isn't here in this realm. But he exists here, right now, in me and in my soul.


Father loss and grief


Grief has taught me that love doesn’t disappear when someone does. It lives in the echoes of songs, the memories of absurdly long karaoke car rides to Misquamicut Beach, the whispered encouragements we carry in our hearts. I’ve learned that the spaces we create with the people we love, the laughter, the freedom, the unabashed joy, become a blueprint for how we show up in the world when they’re gone. My dad gave me a dashboard stage, a place to be me, and those gifts have shaped the woman I am today.



Coping with loss

Loss is brutal, yes, an understatement. It truly wrecks us and breaks us open in the worst and most powerful ways. It teaches us what truly matters and how to cultivate a strength and independence to find fortitude forward with something so catastrophic that will never go away.


It’s a forever wound that doesn’t fully heal but transforms, eventually revealing the beauty in what remains. What remains for me is a life that carries his belief in me, a life where I can honor his love by living fully, by giving myself permission to shine, and by loving fiercely and without reservation.



And I hope you see this too: grief is not just a measure of absence, but a reminder of how deeply we’ve been loved and how much love we are capable of carrying forward. I have learned to carry joy along side of my grief, knowing that none of this is promised or guaranteed. So


So, today I celebrate my dad and his life. I also celebrate what his passing has taught me and how he gave me the gift of learning how to live: if this is it, this is all there is today, then I better live the fucking shit out of it. Please, turn up the volume on your favorite song, your dads favorite song. Be sure to dance, sing, and inhabit every inch of your own life with fullness and joy. Say what you need to say, love without holding back, and never, ever apologize for being who you are.


Life is fleeting, but the way we live it and the love we pour into it will echo forever.


xo,

Angela



 
 
 

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