#17 Six years and counting...
Love, loss & the lessons that stay
This letter might be the hardest one I’ve written to date. January 28th marked the sixth anniversary of my dad’s death. Today’s date, 31st January, was when we held his funeral. In today’s newsletter, I reflect on six years without my beloved dad, the pain of loss, and the light we choose to carry forward.
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Hi, I’m Ruhie! A writer, doctor, mum, and a daughter who lost her dad to a terminal illness.
Welcome to “From the Heart to Beyond” — a place for real-world conversations and reflections on GRIEF, HEALING & FAMILY, which I share in the form of a series of letters to my late dad, Sanjay.
Grief is universal and yet it is all-too-often avoided and widely misunderstood.
MY MISSION here is to:
🕊️ Normalise grief
🌈 Build a supportive community navigating life after loss together
✨ Share what I have learnt from losing someone I love about living with intention and making the most of the time we are given.
If you are a griever ~ If you know & want to support a griever ~ If you want to live fully & stop taking life for granted ~ If you’ve always been fascinated by life & death ~ If you are interested in explorations of the human condition ➡️ THIS IS THE PLACE FOR YOU
Dear Dad,
It’s hard to believe six years have passed since you left us.
Sometimes, it feels like you were just here,
your infectious laugh reverberating in my ears,
your larger-than-life presence filling up every room.
Your light, your energy, your spirit
was such a gift
to all who had the fortune of knowing you.
Other times,
it feels like it’s been so long since I’ve seen you
that there is this ever-growing distance between us,
the gap widening with each passing day.
Memories start to blur
voices fade
and the connection feels more tenuous,
as though I’m reaching out for something
I can't quite grasp.
It’s not that the love or the grief has faded
(quite the opposite in fact);
but your physical presence,
the familiarity,
the little things,
have become harder to hold onto,
leaving me with a deep, quiet, persistent ache.
I still find myself wishing
you’d walk through the door,
flash that dimpled smile of yours
that made the world brighter,
slap my back affectionately
as your way of saying hi (even though I’d always tell you off),
ready with a quick quip or joke
that made being around you always so fun and easy.
Losing you,
especially the way we did,
left a hole in my heart and in my life
that’s impossible to explain.
Those three years were brutal — watching you,
a man who was always so ebullient, so unflappable,
face such a harrowing fight.
I can’t even begin to express
how much I hate ALS/MND
for what it did to you.
But I’m trying to hold onto the good times.
MND might have taken your body,
but you never let it break your spirit.
You were so full of life,
and remained like that throughout.
Yes, you had tough days.
But I was amazed at how you would bounce back
and continue to face each day
with remarkable courage, resilience and positivity
in the face of certain death.
As I look back on six years without you,
I feel the unmistakeable pull of two truths.
When you died, a piece of me died too.
The part that believed everything happens for a reason.
The part that thought bad things don’t happen to good people.
The part that held my childhood so tenderly
with all the innocence and magic intact.
The part that believed in miracles.
The part that knew how to feel pure unadulterated joy,
without grief rearing its ugly head every time.
Every. Single. Time.
But, in the midst of that pain, I can’t deny
that a part of me came alive, too.
The part that has learnt to truly appreciate
the gift of life
and stop taking it for granted.
The part that treasures
the people I love
with all my heart
and wants to make the most of
whatever time I have with them.
The part that honours my true self
and prioritises doing what
lights me up.
The part that chooses love and joy
and seeing beauty
in the small moments.
Grief has taken so much from me
and that will never be okay.
But it’s given me perspective
and a renewed lease on life,
and for that I’ll extend a little gratitude.
Grief has been a strange companion.
Some days it feels unbearable,
while others, I find myself
smiling at a memory of you,
a funny moment
or something only you could’ve said.
Healing, I’ve realised, doesn’t mean letting go;
it means learning to live with the loss
while still carrying all the love
and lessons you gave me.
I miss you more than words can say, Dad,
and I can’t believe I have to
do this life without you.
But I’m learning
and I’m trying
to keep your joy
and your spirit
alive in me.
I try to carry
your laughter,
your optimism,
your courage and resilience;
and even in the darkest times,
I imagine you saying
“Keep going, beta. It will be okay.”
I imagine you out there somewhere,
still making people smile,
still spreading that spark you always did.
And while I’d give anything to have
one more smile
one more hug
one more joke
one more slap on the back
one more conversation with you,
I find some comfort in the thought that
you’re at peace now,
free from pain and suffering.
6 years down, Dad,
and a lifetime to go
without you.
And while that feels
unendurable,
I’ll keep living
the way you did,
the way you would’ve wanted for us
— full of life, love, joy and laughter.
Miss you every day, Dad. Love you always. Until next time 💌
Ruhie
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What is the name is someone you loved and lost? In 2025, how many years, months, days has it been since they passed? Tell us one thing you loved about them. Let’s share their stories ✨
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Six years sounds like a long time, but it really isn't. I'm sure your dad would be so proud of you, Ruhie. Thank you for sharing about him so vividly. It makes me wish I could have known him, too.
It will be four years since Renley died, but sometimes it still feels like yesterday, and sometimes it feels like a lifetime. Exactly as you said.
Thinking of you as you miss your beloved father. I loved the pictures you added to this article as they gave us a glimpse of your father and of you. Being a visual learner, this was very touching to me, along with your words.
Loving someone means grief will be present after they die. I am sorry you didn’t have more years with your dad. He looked like a really kind, amazing person.