My father died by suicide in 2005 after struggling with opioid addiction. I was only two years old when he passed away, so my understanding of grief has always been different from most people’s. While others remember conversations, memories, or final goodbyes, I grew up grieving someone I never truly had the chance to know. For most of my life, my father existed through photographs, stories from relatives, and the empty space his absence left behind. Before his addiction, my father was a mason in the suburbs of Minnesota. He spent years hauling bricks and building beautiful structures that still stand today in neighborhoods across the state. Masonry was physically demanding work, and over time the strain on his body became unbearable. Doctors prescribed opioids to manage his pain, but eventually the medication became more than pain relief. Addiction slowly took hold of his life during a time when prescription opioids were handed out freely without much understanding of the damage they could cause. At the same time, my father was carrying emotional pain as well. In 2005, he traveled to Florida to visit his dying father. Losing a parent devastated him, and the grief became too much for him to bear. While alone in his truck, he overdosed at only forty years old. Although I was too young to fully understand what had happened, the consequences of his death shaped every part of my childhood. His death changed my family forever. My mother suddenly became a single parent to three children while trying to cope with the greatest loss of her life. Instead of reaching out for help, she turned to alcohol to numb her grief. Growing up, I often felt as though I had lost both of my parents in different ways—one permanently and one emotionally. There were many moments in my childhood where I felt confused, isolated, and unsure how to process the instability around me. As a child, I struggled to understand how I was supposed to grieve someone I could barely remember. In elementary school, I attended a support group for children who had lost parents. Many of the other children carried vivid memories of the people they lost, while I felt disconnected from my own grief because I barely knew my father. For years, when people told me they were sorry, I would respond, “I didn’t know him,” as if that somehow meant the loss affected me less. As I grew older, however, I realized grief is not defined only by memory. I mourned the absence of what could have been: the father who would never watch me grow up, support my interests, or be present for milestones in my life. Although losing my father shaped my childhood in painful ways, it also taught me empathy and resilience. Experiencing addiction and loss so closely has made me more understanding toward people who struggle with mental health and substance abuse. It has also taught me the importance of seeking support instead of suffering in silence. While my father’s death will always be part of my story, it no longer defines me only through tragedy. Instead, it has taught me compassion, perseverance, and the importance of healing even after profound loss.