Nobody Prepares You for Losing a Parent

Nobody prepares you for the loss of a parent. How could they? How do you explain the surreal feeling of losing someone who has been a constant presence since the moment you arrived on this Earth? I wasn’t prepared for any of it—the emotional toll, the regrets that bubble up, the heartbreak of knowing they will miss so many moments in your children’s lives, the muscle memory of going to text them before remembering no one will answer and the gut punch that follows, the first holidays, birthdays, and milestones without them, and the sudden awareness of your own mortality. And nobody prepares you for the “business” behind death either.

My dad was full of life at 81—golfing multiple times a week, bowling, hosting karaoke nights, and living his life to the fullest when I got the message that would effectively turn my world upside down. “We are at the hospital, and you are his medical power of attorney.” I spoke with the on-call doctor, who told me my dad likely had only a few months left and that I needed to set up hospice and round-the-clock nursing care immediately. I felt this sudden surge of adrenaline, and the only thing I could hear was my heart pounding out of my chest.

So kicked off the logistical side of losing a parent. From across the country, I interviewed care homes and hospice companies, sorted through finances, and booked flights so my kids could see their Grandpa Ron one last time. The shock of seeing your previously healthy father suddenly bedridden and frail is jarring to say the least. I remember walking into his house to get my bearings on where everything was—the passwords, the keys, the accounts, the trust, the important documents I needed to keep this ship afloat—and just feeling the heaviness in the home. It was dark and dusty, with his shoes right where he left them before he was taken to the hospital and left for the last time.

I lost my dad less than one month later. I sat by his side playing his favorite music and wondering which song would be his finale. After 19 grueling hours of watching him slowly shut down, my dad took his final breath as I held his hand with Dean Martin’s “That’s Amore” playing in the background. An odd mix of devastation and sheer relief that he was no longer suffering filled my body.

In the months that followed, I had to face the “business” behind death—accounts to identify and close, services to cancel, bills to continue paying, estate sales to arrange, a house to empty and sell, assets to liquidate, attorneys to consult, and dealing with the hiccups that inevitably arise, all from 2,300 miles away.

My dad passed on August 27, 2025, and only now am I beginning to process that he is truly gone. My son’s September birthday came and went without the usual video of Grandpa Ron singing “Happy Birthday.” A first trip to Disneyland he had looked forward to hearing all about felt emptier. My husband (a Florida State fan) never received the “Go Florida!” texts during college football season (my dad always mixed up his teams, which was a small but endearing habit we loved). No text came asking for the kids’ Christmas lists. No holiday visit from him that we had planned on this year. I’m starting to see the holes he filled in our lives, and those holes feel bigger every day.

For anyone who has read this far, I want to share some lessons I’ve learned in this process:

Get your affairs in order and make sure your parents have theirs in order too. Have conversations about wishes, documents, accounts, and plans before something happens. Navigating it while in crisis mode isn’t ideal.

Take more pictures. I wish I had more of my dad with my kids.

Time isn’t promised. Life gets busy with work, kids, and obligations, and it’s easy to push things off for tomorrow. Make the phone calls. Make the visits. Tell people how you feel.

Fill your life with more memories and fewer tasks. Realistically, we may have only a few decades left with our children, which will go by in a flash. On our flight home from my dad’s celebration of life, we booked a spontaneous trip to Chicago with the kids to explore museums, eat good food, and soak up the magic of Christmastime as a family.

At the end of this life, we won’t wish for a tidier home, a nicer car, or more things. We will wish we had cuddled our kids more, been more present, gone on more dates with our spouse, and poured ourselves into the people and moments that truly mattered.

So God Made a Grandmother book by Leslie Means

If you liked this, you'll love our book, SO GOD MADE A GRANDMA

Order Now!

Kristyna Moore

Kristyna is a California girl navigating motherhood, work, and mid-life 2,300 miles from where she began. She’s been married to her husband for 10 years and is a working mom to two tiny humans who keep her very humble. Based in Huntsville, Alabama, Kristyna spends her days as a Development Manager for a commercial real estate firm and her off-hours as the Moore household’s resident Chef de Cuisine, professional boo-boo kisser, and full-time manager of an ever-growing laundry pile and toy population. Outside the demands of work and motherhood, she creates content aimed at normalizing hair loss and alternative hair wearing (yes, it’s a wig), and believes deeply in the healing power of fresh air and dirt under her fingernails, so you’ll likely find her elbow-deep in the garden or out on a hike with her little crew - proving that therapy doesn’t always have to come with a couch. As a writer, she gravitates toward the conversations women are rarely invited to have out loud - aging, identity shifts, grief, body changes, motherhood, marriage, and the quiet unraveling and rebuilding that often happens in midlife. Her hope is always the same: to make another woman feel seen, understood, and a little less alone.