My Ritual For Grieving My Father's Passing Is Celebrating Myself & My Community

But grief management isn’t easy. Each year we have a ritual in our religion where my family and I go to a body of water and throw rice in, praying that my father’s afterlife is peaceful. But that really was the only ritual my family enforced. When I was in my 20s, my favorite routine around the holidays was to escape.

To run as far as I could from whatever I was feeling. There was no journaling. No therapy. It was drinking, partying, and dates. Endless dates that had no meaning or purpose. I thought my lifeboat in this ocean of loss was hedonism when really it was a small twig that barely kept me afloat. I truly was drowning for so many years.

Moving away from Southern California gave me the space to process my grief, emotionally and physically. I wasn’t driving past his old hospital every weekend or eating at his favorite food joints. I could figure out who am I without my past looming over me. What can be my relationship with my father now that I am alone? What can be my own rituals around the holidays?

Ritualism with death is found in so many communities around the world. Of course, there is the famous Dia De Los Muertos, where families celebrate the lives of the dead. But there are several others, like the Obon Festival in Japan where people go back to their hometowns and spend it with their loved ones.

They dance, light giant bonfires, and send down lanterns in the river honoring their ancestors. In China, they have the Hungry Ghost Festival, where families place food out for hungry spirits who have passed.

What is a common through line with all these rituals is community. There is no better way to acknowledge what we have lost than by celebrating what we still do have. That emptiness can never be filled, and no one will ever truly understand what you have been through. But community is such a beautiful way of reminding us that there are so many people in this world who are willing to meet you halfway if you let them in.

This year, I let my friends know the first week of November that the holidays are tough for me and that, though I’ll be a lot more quiet, the company would be appreciated. Long walks and dinners at cozy restaurants ensued. I’ve had people texting me throughout the season to see if I was doing okay.

I threw myself into my dance classes in a way that I hadn’t before. This was the first year my mother and I could have open conversations about my father. His complexities. His kindness and, most importantly, how he would have wanted us to live.

I have been feeling his overwhelming sense of gratitude over how well he has kept me protected over the years. Whenever I tried to run away, I always had someone to put me on the right track. Usually, it was a friend who saw that I was just a girl shooting blanks in the dark, trying to figure this all out.

I certainly still haven’t figured out dating. I haven’t fallen in love yet, and though I have been disappointed more than probably the average person, I am grateful I dodged all those bullets and that if I just look up when I’m falling in that ocean of grief, there are multiple hands who are willing to pull me up. I am loved. I feel so loved.

My ritual for grief is celebrating the folks in my life who have been there for me throughout these years. I’m also celebrating myself. The garden I have nurtured within myself. I’m not running away from the pain I’ve felt over the years; no, not at all. I’m running to it and addressing what’s hurting.

Can a yoga class bring some movement through grief? Can a long, silly phone call with an old friend remind me that life moves on? I keep myself curious about what my needs are and give myself grace. Something I never gave myself when I was younger.

I’d like to end with this passage I found miraculously on Reddit.

“As for grief, you'll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it's some physical thing. Maybe it's a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it's a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.

In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don't even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything...and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.

Somewhere down the line, and it's different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O'Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you'll come out.”

Let’s make things inbox official! Sign up for the xoNecole newsletter for love, wellness, career, and exclusive content delivered straight to your inbox.