#healingwhileworking

I woke up earlier than I expected (around 1 a.m.) and for a while I debated whether I should get up or go back to sleep. I had promised myself I’d do something this morning, but I wasn’t sure what time exactly. After counting the hours, I realized I had already slept for six. Maybe that was enough.

And as soon as I became fully awake, the memory settled in.

Here at home, at the family house, I remember him even more clearly. My dad was always the one who woke up first before a trip. He would quietly prepare breakfast, clean up the house, and move like clockwork to make the morning easier for all of us. The absence of that presence hit me again, especially the memory of his footsteps and the calm way he used to take care of everything.

I saw pictures of him today. I was reminded again that I still dream of him clearly. In my dream, it was just a normal morning. He looked at me, smiled, and said, “Good morning, Kuya.” That was how our mornings were. Sometimes he would ask what we wanted for breakfast or ask how work was going.

But if the dream had gone further, I think I would have asked him a question I’ve been carrying for months now: Is it really over? Can I no longer talk to you? Can you still feel anything?

That’s what I really want to know.

I wish he could see me now.

Not because I’ve accomplished anything massive, but because I’ve changed. I used to show love through support like financial help, occasional gifts, and saying I love you. But I wasn’t present. Not really. When my mom was struggling at work before, I didn’t know how to comfort her. I just told her to resign. I promised I’d earn more to cover for the family. My dad was the one who handled the emotional work. He was the one who sat with her, talked to her, and held her when I couldn’t.

Now, I’m doing what he used to do. I call my mom three to four times a day. I listen to her, ask how she’s feeling, and stay on the line when she needs to vent. It’s not just about support anymore. It’s about presence.

But I’ve also made mistakes this week that I want to leave behind.

Yesterday, we were talking about selling my dad’s motorbike. My mom mentioned raising the price. I told her, without thinking, “Let’s not talk to Daddy like that.” I meant it in a gentle way, but it came out wrong. Her friend laughed. She didn’t. It hurt her deeply. She carried it the whole night, and when I came home, she told me it left a mark. I didn’t mean to make her feel like that, especially not in front of someone else. But I did, and I regret it.

I also regret the times I snapped at my boyfriend when he was just trying to have fun. He was playing around while I was working from home, but truthfully, I should not have been working then. I should have been present with him. I want to become more conscious. I want to respond instead of reacting.

And if you asked the version of me from a year ago what would surprise him the most, it wouldn’t be the growth. It wouldn’t be the job changes or even the medication. It would be the fact that my dad is gone.

He would ask what happened. He would panic. I would tell him to take Dad to the doctor. To track his blood pressure three times a day. To get a second opinion. To not wait. To spend more time at home, to cherish it. To help with the cleaning, to sit longer at the table, to talk more. To love deeper while there’s still time.

Today, everything I touched felt like it meant something more.

At work, I was put in charge of something I didn’t start. The pressure was unfair, and the expectations were rushed. People wanted results without doing the prep, and I had to be the one to say we stop until this is done right. It was hard, but I did it. I said it respectfully, and I meant it.

Still, there’s always that ache. It’s the part of me that wonders if I could’ve done more—if I should’ve started earlier, managed things better, or moved faster. It’s not exactly burnout. It’s more like a quiet hum of regret that I try to ignore by staying busy, but it doesn’t leave.

Then there’s the bike.

The one I bought for my dad. He loved it. He cleaned it every day and told everyone about it. It made him feel young again, free again. He said he’d pay for it through his pension, starting in March. He died in March.

I told myself I’d ride it. Learn, even if I never learned to ride a bicycle. I bought one and fell a lot. It took me a full month just to ride straight. But the motorbike was too much. Too big. Too full of his fingerprints.

It sat untouched.

As the months passed, I realized I wasn’t preserving him. I was letting the thing he loved fade. My dad would’ve hated that. He took care of everything he loved, especially that bike. So I knew it was time. Not to forget, but to pass it on.

We tried to offer it to someone in the family, but they disrespected the memory by trying to get it cheap. I couldn’t take that. That bike is part of my dad’s joy. His story. If we’re letting it go, it has to be to someone who sees it the way he did.

Someone might buy it now. It might find a second life. Maybe that’s how I keep him close, not by holding on, but by letting the love keep moving forward, even when he can’t.

Later today, I visited his grave. I told him I missed him. I said I still couldn’t accept that this is forever. I don’t believe in afterlives. I believe in silence. But still, I talk. I hope.

The hardest part of grief isn’t crying. It’s the almosts. The what ifs. The never agains. And the way they show up in the quietest moments, like while I’m driving home or holding the keys to a bike I never got to ride with him.

If I could bottle anything from today, it would be that quiet regret.