Four Lessons I’ve Learned in Four Years of Grief

My dearest incurable humanist,

It was February 17, 2022 at 2:12 AM

“Can you talk?” My phone’s screen brightened with the text notification from my mom.

I was in bed, alone, freezing, on the 39th floor of a Santa Fe high-rise, the Hudson Yards of Mexico City. The wind howled outside. The windows trembled. I hadn’t been able to sleep. I knew something was wrong. My dad had been missing for twelve days in Caracas.

“I can. I am here,” I typed back, my fingers shaking against the screen.

“I need to talk to both of you,” she replied.

I ran to my brother’s room, waking him up. We called Mom together.

“Kids,” she said. “Dad has died.”

Twelve days of hoping, praying, bargaining with God, the universe, and anyone who might be listening, and this was the end. I was twenty-six years old, and I had just inherited a grief that would reshape everything I thought I knew about myself, about family, about the price of being Venezuelan.

Tomorrow is February 4th, my dad’s anniversary. He went missing on February 4th, 2022, and for twelve agonizing days, my mom, my brother and I, existed in a kind of hell, until his body was found on the 16th. But February 4th is the date that matters to me, because it’s the day I lost him.

These past four years have been a roller coaster in many ways. I moved back to New York City, fulfilling my lifelong dream; I married the love of my life, I’ve been shaped and tested by experiences at work and beyond, and through it all, I’ve grieved deeply. As I wrote a few months ago, I miss my father terribly every single day. I think constantly about the things we disagreed on, the moments he’d tell me “someday you’ll understand,” and now I do.

I thought I’d share with you four things I have learned in four years of grief.

1. Grief doesn’t expire

It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been grieving, that hole will remain there forever. Yes, there will be better days, better weeks. Yes, maybe one day you’ll think you’ve healed. But then, out of nowhere, a song will start playing or something that reminds you of them will show up. For me, it’s a banana split. I used to eat them with my dad when I was young. The other day I walked into a Dunkin’ Donuts that’s also a Baskin-Robbins to get coffee, and there was a dad with a little girl getting a banana split. Right there and then, a tear came down my cheek. If you’ve just started grieving, don’t worry, it does get better. But it’s something you learn to live with rather than move on from.

2. Some people will leave

When you lose someone, it feels like your whole world stopped turning because in a way, it has. You don’t feel like doing what you used to. Your point of view changes and it’s hard to comprehend how everyone keeps happily living or worrying about things that, in your head, don’t matter after what you’ve experienced. Some friends and family won’t get it. Each person processes grief in their own way, which makes this a profoundly lonely journey. People you think will be there for you won’t be, and you end up mourning that loss too. (Although in my experience, this loss is significantly easier to get over.)

3. Best Inheritance Isn’t Material

I was so lucky. My father was my guide through every major decision, every moment when paths diverged. Now, four years after losing him, I've realized he's still guiding me. When I'm faced with a choice, I think about what he would do. I replay our conversations. His lessons on integrity, resilience, and steadfastness remain my north star, turning grief into eternal companionship.

4. Grief and joy can coexist

The good news is that after a while, you start to find joy again in small things. You become grateful for precious moments with your loved ones. You discover that you can hold both the ache of absence and the sweetness of presence at the same time. The grief doesn’t diminish the joy, and the joy doesn’t diminish the grief.

I’m still figuring this out. There’s so much I want to tell my dad, so many questions I wish I could ask him. For now, all I can do is take it one day at a time.

Until next week.