Losing a parent is never easy. Losing a parent you loved but didn’t fully get to know—because addiction stood in the way—is a different kind of grief. It’s layered. It’s confusing. It doesn’t always look like the kind of loss people expect. Sometimes, it feels like mourning someone twice: the person who died, and the version of them you hoped would someday exist.

That’s where I’ve been lately. My dad passed away recently, and I’ve been trying to make sense of it. He struggled with addiction for most of his life, and that shaped our relationship in ways I’m still unraveling. He wasn’t always there in the way I needed him to be, but I always loved him. And despite everything, he always loved me.

With my birthday coming up—my first one without him—I’ve been feeling it in a deeper way than I expected. He always got me a birthday card. Not just any card, but one that was ridiculously sweet, maybe even too sweet. The kind that said all the things we didn’t say out loud. That card was his way of showing up, even when he couldn’t in other ways. And now, that card won’t be there.

So I’ve decided: I’m going to buy it myself.

Not out of denial. Not to pretend he’s still here. But because honoring that ritual feels like a way to keep the connection alive. It feels like something I need to do for me.

The Complicated Grief of Loving Someone with Addiction

Grieving someone with addiction is complex. There’s a push and pull between memory and reality, between who they were and who they could’ve been. My dad wasn’t perfect. He hurt people, including me. There were times he didn’t show up. Times he chose the bottle or the high or the chaos instead of stability. But he was still my dad. And I never stopped hoping he’d get better.

And he did try. He had periods of sobriety, moments of clarity. And in those moments, he was warm. Funny. Tender. I remember once, when I was going through a rough time, he told me he was proud of me. That I was strong, smarter than he ever was, and that I’d break the cycle. He said it like he meant it, like he saw me—and I held on to that for dear life.

Now that he’s gone, those moments are what I return to. I replay the good ones. I revisit the sweet cards, the inside jokes, the rare but real moments where he was fully him. Those are the pieces I carry. Not to erase the hard stuff, but to let myself love the parts of him that were beautiful, too.

My First Birthday Without Him

Birthdays have always been bittersweet, but this one is different. It’s the first one without him, and it feels like something is missing—like I’m showing up to a party and forgetting what I came for. Every year, I knew I’d get a card from him. Usually late, scribbled handwriting, maybe a little cheesy, but always heartfelt. Those cards were sometimes the only real gift I’d get from him, and they meant more than he probably knew.

He didn’t always say the right things in person, but in those cards, he said everything. That he was proud of me. That he loved me more than life. That I was his favorite person in the world. Whether he was clean or not, the card always showed up.

This year, it won’t. And that’s what’s been sitting in my chest the last few weeks. I don’t want to pretend the loss doesn’t matter. I don’t want to shove my grief into the closet because it’s inconvenient or uncomfortable. I want to feel it. I want to honor it. And I want to keep the part of him that showed up in those cards alive.

So I went to the store.

I stood in the greeting card aisle, scanning row after row of “Dad” cards—some funny, some sappy, all of them loaded. I read one that said: “I’m so lucky to have had a dad like you.” That wasn’t it. Then one that read: “You always knew the right thing to say.” Not quite. But then I found one that said something simple and true: “No matter what, I’ve always loved you.” And I knew—that’s the one he would’ve picked. Maybe not word for word, but the feeling was there.

I bought it.

I wrote myself a little note inside, in the way I imagined he might. I signed it Love, Dad. And you know what? It helped. Not because it fixed the loss, but because it gave me a way to stay connected to the love. Even if he’s gone, the love isn’t.

Grieving in Real Life, Not Instagram Life

There’s no tidy arc to grief. It’s not something you process neatly in stages and then move on from. Especially not when addiction is part of the story. It’s full of questions, regrets, and what-ifs. I wish I’d had more time with my dad. I wish we could’ve had more real conversations. I wish addiction hadn’t taken so much from both of us.

But I also know that wishing doesn’t change the past. What I can do is decide how I carry it forward.

Grief doesn’t always show up with tears. Sometimes it’s numbness. Sometimes it’s irritation. Sometimes it’s standing in the card aisle feeling like a grown adult and a grieving kid at the same time. Sometimes it’s not knowing whether to laugh or cry, so you do both in the same breath.

I used to think grief would get smaller over time. What I’ve learned is that it stays the same size, but I grow around it. I build a bigger life—one that includes the grief, not avoids it.

Honoring a Complicated Love

It would be easier to put my dad in a box: “He was an addict. He let me down.” But that would erase the whole picture. Because he was also the man who told me I was brave. Who called me just to hear my voice. Who sent me a card every year, even when he was at his worst, because some part of him still wanted to show up.

Loving someone with addiction requires a strange kind of grace. You have to hold boundaries and compassion. You have to accept what they couldn’t give you, while still treasuring what they did. You have to learn how to love without losing yourself—and how to keep loving them, even after they’re gone.

So that’s what I’m doing. I’m loving my dad in the ways I can. I’m allowing myself to miss him. I’m letting myself be sad that I didn’t get to know him better. I’m making peace with the fact that some things will always feel unfinished.

But I’m also choosing joy where I can. I’m buying the card. I’m reading it to myself. I’m imagining the hug that would’ve come with it. And I’m reminding myself that love, even flawed love, is still worth celebrating.

Final Thoughts

If you’re also grieving a parent—especially one with addiction—please know you’re not alone. Your grief doesn’t have to make sense to anyone else. You’re allowed to miss them and be angry. You’re allowed to celebrate their memory and feel relief that the chaos is over. You’re allowed to write your own story, even if theirs didn’t end the way you hoped.

This birthday, I’m choosing to keep my dad with me in a new way. Not because I’m stuck in the past, but because love like that doesn’t disappear. It changes form. It moves with us. And sometimes, it shows up in the simple act of buying a card for yourself—because you know, in your heart, what it would’ve said.

Have a great day honey

Love, Dad.