My daughter is leaving; my grief is returning.

“Grace Infantino” rang through the speakers as I watched her on the large projection screen, walking across the stage to receive her high-school diploma.

My heart stopped, and reality bent as I found myself trapped. Squeezed into a liminal state, stuck between 2003, when I was walking across the stage looking forward to the rest of my life with Ariana, and 2030, when I would be watching Grace again walk across the stage, but for her college degree.

On the outside, I appeared bored. Unimpressed. Inside–I was twisted and gnarled. This past year, every moment with her has felt like the last, knowing she will be leaving our home.

Similar to how each moment with Ariana felt like that last, as we counted down the days, her body succumbed to the cancer.

Grace is an amazing young woman.
My job is “over.”
She made it through.
Her whole life is ahead of her now.

But I’m in pain. A familiar pain. But pain nonetheless.

I love my daughter.
She is my inspiration.
My muse. The light in my world.

Our home will feel different. Again.

Our family is shrinking. Again.

We were five. Then four.

Now three.

I am grateful for my children. I cherish my fatherhood. It is my greatest job, and my most prized accomplishment.

I am honored to be their dad.

And, to have said that out loud, took 18 years of excuriatingly difficult work going to war with myself. Then learning to love myself.

It was worth it because all the pain I endured has given me the freedom to love them unconditionally.

Listen, our kids leave our homes, and it fucking hurts. There is no shame in it. No denial. No fear of judgment.

We must grieve the loss of their presence. The loss of their youth. And the passing of time, resulting in our aging.

It’s awful. Terrible. Painful. But also beautiful. Healthly. And cause for celebration.

So, please, celebrate my beautiful girl with me now. And if you have your own, allow me to celebrate them, with you.

With sadness and love,
- CJ

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