Grief does not always arrive with death. Sometimes it arrives through absence, inconsistency, or a moment that quietly marks an ending you are too young to name.

I was seven years old when my parents divorced. At that age, you do not understand adult decisions, addiction, or emotional distance. You understand one thing. Someone you love is suddenly gone.

All I wanted was my dad.

His addiction took over his life. He sold his business and left our family, with no explanation to me. I concluded that he no longer loved me because I hardly saw him. I would beg him to spend time with him. For him to show up for me. And one day, that happened.

How We Navigate Grief is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Why small moments with an absent parent matter so much

When my dad and his new girlfriend, Julie, got a new apartment, it felt monumental. I was finally allowed to sleep over at my dad’s house - something that I didn’t think would ever be possible. This was not just a sleepover. It was proof. Proof that I still mattered. Proof that I still belonged somewhere with him.

My dad told me we were going to the all-night skate at the local roller rink.

To a child who loved roller skating and was objectively terrible at it, this felt like a dream. Roller skating was joy without skill. Wobbly confidence. Blind optimism. The belief that wanting something badly enough could hold you upright. And the only thing that really mattered was that I was spending time with my dad.

What happened at the all-night roller skate?

The rink was loud and sticky and alive. Disco lights spun. Wheels clacked. Kids flew past me like they had secret instructions for balance that I never received.

Within a few laps, gravity made its point. I fell hard.

The pain came a moment after the shock. Sharp. Immediate. Undeniable.

I remember skating over to my dad, in pain. I was not okay.

Julie brought me cotton candy and ice, which felt like a very adult attempt to fix something that could not be fixed. We went to the emergency room. X-rays confirmed it. A broken arm. A cast. A sling that felt far too big for my small body.

Why that night still matters decades later

That night, I slept on my back, arm propped up, uncomfortable in every possible way.

And I was smiling.

I had the biggest smile on my face.

Because my dad stayed. Because he was there. Because we had gone to the all-night skate. Because I was not waiting by a door that never opened. I was not doing laps around disappointment. For one night, I was chosen.

It was the best night.

It was also the last time I ever slept at my dad’s place.

How grief can begin without death

I did not know it then, but grief had already entered my life.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Quietly.

Grief arrived wrapped in cotton candy and hospital bracelets. It arrived in the realization that something precious had already ended, even though no one had died. The dad that I had before the divorce was no longer. The dad I had before addiction took over his life, no longer existed.

This is how early grief often shows up in children. As a before and an after. As a moment that feels perfect and fragile at the same time. As love that exists, but does not last.

What this story teaches about childhood grief

For years, that night lived in my body as both comfort and loss. Proof that love was real. Proof that it could disappear without warning.

Grief taught me early that joy does not guarantee permanence. That being held does not mean you will not be left. Those moments can be beautiful and fleeting at the same time.

I did not have language for it then. I only had the memory of falling, breaking, being taken care of, and sleeping peacefully because my dad was nearby.

How this memory reshaped my understanding of grief

Looking back now, I can name it.

That night was grief in its earliest form. Not the grief of death, but the grief of realizing that connection can come and go. The grief of learning how to miss someone who is still alive.

And still, I am grateful.

Because grief did not only take something from me that night. It also showed me how deeply I could feel. How much love mattered. How one imperfect, painful, beautiful night can carry you for a lifetime.

That night still lives in me.

Cast. Sling. Smile.

And the quiet knowing that love, even when it does not last, still counts.

Let’s navigate your grief together,

XX Blair

P.S. Download the Navigating Grief Framework here, and use it to help you strengthen your resilience muscle.

P.P.S. I lead a grief group for Sharewell almost every Tuesday at 5pm PT. Join us and try out ShareWell Pro for FREE.

How We Navigate Grief is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit howwenavigategrief.substack.com/subscribe