Enough Love
Fourteen years ago this month, my dad made the difficult choice to leave this world. In the quiet aftermath of that loss, I found myself thinking about all the forehead kisses that would never come—gentle reminders of connection that had always been our special language of love.
My mom, despite their divorce years earlier, shared something profound with me during those tender days of grief. She couldn't understand why he hadn't remembered that there was always enough love in this world to stay. Her words have stayed with me, becoming both a question and a comfort as I've navigated the landscape of loss.
Through the years, I've come to understand a gentler truth: sometimes love isn't enough to quiet the storm in someone's mind, but that doesn't make the love any less real. The father who kissed my forehead as a child (and adult) never stopped loving me—he simply couldn't feel that love was stronger than his pain.
I think about those absent forehead kisses often. The ones that should have been there when I went through my divorce from a man my father cared about deeply (despite their spirited political debates). The celebratory forehead kiss when I found love again. The proud moments watching my boys transform from the little ones he knew at ages 3 and 6 into the remarkable young men they are today at 17 and 20—young men he would have been so proud to know. Those ordinary forehead kisses when life felt overwhelming and I needed that gentle reminder that I belonged to someone who cherished me.
Fourteen years of tender moments that exist now only in the mathematics of missing.
Grief has been an unexpected teacher, showing me how to mother myself in ways I never knew were possible. I've learned to give myself those forehead kisses—to offer myself the tenderness my heart craves. My sons, now tall enough that I can rest my head on their shoulders the way I once did with my dad, sometimes offer their own version of this gentle love. Both have inherited this beautiful language of affection, and watching both of them grow into compassionate young men shows me that love truly does continue its work across generations. In those moments when they tower over me with such gentle care, I feel the circle of love continuing even within its brokenness.
There's something both heartbreaking and healing about carrying love for someone who couldn't stay to receive it. My dad owes me fourteen years of gentle moments, and I'm still here, collecting interest on a debt that can never be repaid. But as of late instead of dwelling in that absence, I'm using what he taught me about love to create abundance for others.
I hold space for friends who are struggling, remembering that in our darkest moments, we are held by love bigger than our pain. I choose to stay, to remain present, to be proof that there is enough love in this world—there has always been enough.
Your story doesn't end with how you left, Dad. It continues in how I choose to stay, how I wrap others in the warmth you couldn't feel, how I remember that love persists even when the person we love cannot.
I miss you deeply. I understand your pain more than I wish I did. And I forgive the choice that took you from us, even as I wish it could have been different.
I'm still your girl, counting kisses and spreading the love you couldn't feel was there all along. In every forehead kiss I give, in every moment I choose hope over despair, in every time I remind someone that they matter—your love lives on.
To anyone reading this who needs the reminder: there is always, always enough love in this world to stay. You are held, you are cherished, and your presence here matters more than you know.
If you're struggling with thoughts of suicide or need someone to talk to, please reach out. The 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline is available 24/7 at 988 or chat online at 988lifeline.org. You are not alone.
