The summer before I went into 7th grade I learned that my father had multiple myeloma infecting his body. I learned that he had had it for the majority of my life and that he was getting worse. He had it years ago, went into remission, and now it was back with a vengeance. The first week of school he went into the ICU. He never came out. During the second week of school on a Tuesday, I was pulled out of my pre-algebra class right as I was about to start a quiz on exponent rules. At this moment I knew what I was being called out for: my dad had passed away. He was gone. A part of my soul had entered a different plane of existence. I walked through the halls holding back tears. Over the next several months I struggled with my grief. I fought daily not to let it take me over and drown me in sorrow. For months I refused to go to therapy thinking that it made me weak. I struggled with the overwhelming weight of loss that I forced myself to battle alone, never telling anyone I was struggling. I would go home and cry. I would cover my mouth with two hands to muffle my sobs, take off my necklaces so I had nothing to grab onto, and eventually become numb and stare at a wall. That was my routine. Wake up, put on a facade, go to school, pretend, come home, let the mask fall, cry, sleep, repeat. But come the following January, I couldn’t do it anymore. I didn’t want to keep hurting. I knew I wouldn’t survive if I did. So I sucked up my fear and asked my mom to go to therapy. I was hesitant at first, thinking that it wasn’t going to work. That some random person wouldn’t understand my pain and help. I was wrong. I went to those appointments, telling people who asked why I wasn’t at school that it was a “doctor’s appointment”, scared of what they would think if they knew I was in therapy. I slowly got better. There were setbacks and moments I lost all faith in life, but that’s recovery; it’s never linear. Over time I grew to understand myself and others better. My relationships, communication skills, and ability to help others grew. I grew. I still go to therapy to this day, but my appointments come less often; now they are only when I need them. My grief still lives inside me, I just grew around it. That hole in my life will always be there. Sometimes that hole is more obvious than others. Prom, graduation, sporting events, my birthday, Christmas, thinking of my future wedding. Those are the times I feel it most, the times when a girl needs her dad. But instead of unbearable pain and grief, I feel a sense of nostalgia and sadness as I remember the time I had with him, not the time I lost. I think of how he turned his hair loss from chemo into a joke about him having “peach fuzz”. I remember the times when he and I would go to Home Depot, listen to Mumford and Sons and “Style” by Taylor Swift on the way home, and then build whatever needed to be built. I remember his warm hugs and kind smile; two things I got from him. When I look in the mirror and see him, and when my mom tells me he lives on through me I feel proud to be my Father’s daughter.