Two Years Ago Today

Two years ago today, my dad died. I missed saying goodbye by a few hours. My flight didn’t make it.

I’ve made my peace with that because he was in pain, and that was never going to change. Sometimes the kindest thing is also the hardest thing.

My dad worked nights. Which meant we were always quiet. That was just the rule of the house. Keep it down and don’t disturb him. I was so good at being quiet.

In the morning, I used to sit on the top step, waiting for him to come home from work. He used to bring me brand new copies of magazines, little books, things he’d picked up at the printers where he worked.

My dad was a rebel and he didn't conform. He would talk to absolutely anyone and make friends with strangers. He was inappropriate, silly, the kind of person who’d say the thing nobody else would say and somehow get away with it. With Dakota and Abbey, he was magic - they got the best of him, and he absolutely adored them.

We had a complicated relationship. Every time I flew home from Dubai, I would always break something within 5 minutes of arriving, creating chaos without meaning to. I realise now we just didn’t know how to communicate very well. We were very good at sharing cups of tea and cigarettes though, and I learned my eclectic taste in music from him.

Flying back to see him when he got ill, something shifted between us. We talked in a way we never quite had before. Not about everything, but enough.

I was at the house afterwards sorting through iall the messy things that you have to do, when I picked up what I thought was an upside-down toothbrush glass.

It was his false teeth.

Water and teeth everywhere. All over me. I just burst out laughing because I absolutely knew he was right there. Completely delighted with himself.

During that summer at home, the butterfly arrived. On the garden table, on the windowsill, always nearby. One day it landed on me and just stayed. Then it started fluttering right in my face. Again, he’d have been delighted at my reaction.

I see butterflies everywhere now. Every time something important happens. Every time I need a sign. Every time I need to know it’s going to be okay, there’s a butterfly.

What can I say about grief? I didn’t expect it to be the thing that woke me up. Because somewhere in the complicated time of losing him, missing him, the guilt and the peace of knowing he wasn't in pain anymore, I realised something.

I didn’t have to be quiet anymore. Not to protect anyone or to keep the peace. Not to make myself easier for everyone else to be around. I could take up space now. I could be loud and messy and want things and say so.

I could follow the things that had been quietly niggling at me for years - the work, the healing, and helping women who were exactly where I’d been.

Two years later, I’m a clinical hypnotherapist and RTT therapist, starting my Masters of Unconscious Processing. I love learning and I love helping people.

I am more confident than I think I ever have been in my life, and I have started putting myself first and going for the things I want to do. I have Abbey (my whole why) watching me become someone she can be proud of.

And I still see butterflies. I know it’s him giving me a nod that says, "I’m proud of you kid, keep going". I’m pretty sure somewhere he’s laughing and making inappropriate jokes about the things he's seen me do.

If you’re stuck in the quiet right now making yourself small, waiting for permission or holding back from the thing that’s calling you, just know that you don’t have to wait or stay quiet and small. 🩷

Jess x