There are some things in life that time changes, and there are other things that time can never touch.

My love for my son is one of those things.

My son Paul died on October 25, 2021. He was only 21 years old.

Since that day, my life has been divided into two parts: the life I lived when my son was here and the life I have been trying to live since he died.

Years have passed, but I still talk about him.

I say his name.

I tell stories about him.

I write about him.

I remember the things he did, the person he was, the ways he helped me, and the moments we shared.

Sometimes I talk about the pain of losing him. Other times I talk about how proud I am to be his father.

And sometimes people may wonder why.

Why keep talking about someone who has died?

Why continue writing about grief years later?

Why bring up memories that can hurt so deeply?

The answer is simple:

Because Paul is still my son.

Death changed how I can love him, but it did not end my love for him.

And as long as I am alive, I will continue saying his name.

Death Did Not Stop Me From Being His Father

When a child dies, people sometimes struggle to understand what happens to the parent’s identity.

Your child is gone physically, but you do not suddenly stop being their mother or father.

I didn’t stop being Paul’s dad on October 25, 2021.

There wasn’t a switch that turned off inside me.

There wasn’t a moment when my memories disappeared or my love stopped.

I am still his father.

That relationship continues within me, even though it has changed in a way I never wanted.

When Paul was alive, being his father meant talking with him, worrying about him, helping him, laughing with him and imagining his future.

Now being his father means something different.

It means protecting his memory.

It means telling his story.

It means carrying his love with me.

It means trying to live in a way that would make him proud.

And sometimes it simply means saying:

“My son Paul.”

Those three words still matter to me.

I Don’t Want the World to Forget Him

One of the quiet fears that can come with losing someone you love is wondering whether the world will eventually forget them.

At first, everyone remembers.

People ask how you’re doing.

They mention your child’s name.

They share memories.

They check on you around birthdays, anniversaries and holidays.

But eventually, life continues.

People become busy.

Years pass.

The world keeps moving.

For everyone else, your child’s death becomes something that happened years ago.

For a parent, however, your child remains your child.

That is one reason I continue talking about Paul.

I don’t expect everyone else to carry his memory the way I do. That isn’t their responsibility.

But I can carry it.

I can tell people who he was.

I can write about what he meant to me.

I can share the lessons his life taught me.

Paul existed.

He mattered.

He was loved.

He changed my life.

And his death does not erase the fact that he lived.

Saying His Name Doesn’t Make My Grief Worse

Sometimes people avoid mentioning someone who died because they’re afraid of upsetting the grieving person.

I understand the intention.

They may think:

“I don’t want to remind him.”

But I don’t need to be reminded that my son died.

I already know.

I wake up knowing it.

I go through ordinary days knowing it.

I experience birthdays, holidays and anniversaries knowing it.

There is no moment when someone mentions Paul and suddenly reminds me of something I had forgotten.

I haven’t forgotten.

What can hurt more is feeling like everyone else has.

Hearing Paul’s name can bring sadness, but it can also bring something beautiful.

It reminds me that he mattered to other people too.

It tells me that someone remembers him.

And sometimes hearing a memory about him that I haven’t heard before is priceless.

So please don’t assume that mentioning someone who died automatically creates grief.

The grief is already there.

Sometimes saying their name actually brings comfort.

Talking About Paul Keeps His Memory Alive

Memories are precious after someone dies.

When your child is alive, you assume there will be more.

More birthdays.

More conversations.

More photographs.

More holidays.

More ordinary afternoons.

More stories.

You don’t realize how valuable ordinary moments are until there will never be another one.

After losing Paul, the memories we already created became treasures.

That is why I write them down.

That is why I talk about him.

Every story becomes another small way of keeping part of his life present.

I remember his compassion.

I remember the ways he helped me.

I remember his personality.

I remember the private moments that probably seemed insignificant at the time but mean everything to me now.

Those memories remind me that Paul’s life was bigger than the day he died.

I never want his entire story to become:

“He died at 21.”

His death is part of his story.

But it isn’t his whole story.

Paul lived for 21 years.

He loved.

He laughed.

He helped people.

He had dreams.

He had struggles.

He had a personality that belonged only to him.

He was my son.

That is the story I want to preserve.

Writing About Him Helps Me Carry My Grief

Writing has become one of the ways I process what happened.

There are feelings connected to child loss that are incredibly difficult to explain in ordinary conversation.

Sometimes grief feels like sadness.

Sometimes it feels like anger.

Sometimes it feels like loneliness.

Sometimes it feels like guilt.

Sometimes it feels like exhaustion.

And sometimes it is simply an overwhelming longing to see your child again.

Writing gives those emotions somewhere to go.

When I write about Paul, I am not trying to stay trapped in grief.

I am trying to understand how to carry something that will always be part of me.

There is a difference between moving forward and leaving someone behind.

I am trying to move forward.

But I am not leaving my son behind.

Paul comes with me.

I Talk About Him Because Love Doesn’t Have an Expiration Date

People sometimes talk about grief as though it should gradually disappear.

And yes, grief can change.

You learn how to function again.

You learn how to survive difficult dates.

You learn what triggers you.

You learn how to carry memories without collapsing every time they surface.

There may eventually be laughter again.

There may be new relationships.

There may be moments when life feels meaningful again.

But none of that means you stop loving the person who died.

Love doesn’t expire because someone is no longer physically here.

I loved Paul when he was alive.

I love him now.

And I will love him for the rest of my life.

Grief exists because love existed first.

If I had not loved my son so deeply, losing him would not hurt so deeply.

So when I talk about Paul, I am not only talking about death.

I am talking about love.

Some Days I Want to Talk About the Good Memories

Not every conversation about my son has to be sad.

That is something I wish more people understood.

Sometimes I want to laugh about something Paul did.

Sometimes I want to tell a story.

Sometimes I want to remember what he was like when he was younger.

Sometimes I want to look at a photograph and smile before the sadness arrives.

A person’s memory should not become untouchable simply because they died.

Paul was a real person.

There were funny moments.

There were difficult moments.

There were normal father-and-son moments.

There were memories that still make me proud.

There were memories that still make me laugh.

Those belong in his story too.

Grief and gratitude can exist together.

I can miss him terribly while also being grateful that I had the privilege of being his father.

I Talk About Him for Other Grieving Fathers

Another reason I continue writing about Paul is because I know there are fathers sitting somewhere right now believing they have to suffer alone.

Men are often expected to be strong.

When tragedy happens, people may look toward the father to hold everything together.

Take care of the family.

Handle arrangements.

Return to work.

Stay composed.

Keep moving.

But fathers grieve too.

A father’s heart can break just as deeply.

We may express it differently, hide it more often or struggle to find the words, but the pain is real.

If talking openly about my son helps another father realize that he isn’t weak because he misses his child, then talking about Paul has meaning beyond my own grief.

If another father reads something I’ve written at 2:00 in the morning while wondering how he will survive another day and realizes that someone understands, then Paul’s memory has helped another person.

That matters to me.

Helping Others Gives My Pain a Purpose

I would give anything to have Paul back.

There is no lesson, article, accomplishment or purpose that makes his death acceptable.

I would choose my son every time.

But I cannot change what happened.

What I can choose is what I do with the life I still have.

I can allow grief to completely consume me.

Or I can try to turn some of my pain into compassion.

That doesn’t mean pretending everything is okay.

It means saying:

“I know what this darkness feels like. Maybe I can help someone else find their way through it.”

That has become an important part of why I write.

I talk about child loss because someone needs to know they aren’t alone.

I talk about grieving fathers because fathers deserve support too.

I talk about surviving because there were days when I wasn’t sure how I could.

And I talk about Paul because he is at the center of why any of this matters to me.

Moving Forward Does Not Mean Forgetting

This may be one of the hardest lessons of grief.

For a long time, moving forward can feel like betrayal.

You may feel guilty the first time you laugh.

You may feel guilty when you enjoy something.

You may feel guilty when you begin making plans.

You may even feel guilty when you realize you went several hours without thinking consciously about your child’s death.

But continuing to live does not mean you are forgetting.

Healing does not mean replacing your child.

Finding happiness again does not mean your child mattered less.

I believe there is room in my heart for both.

There is room for grief.

There is room for memories.

There is room for Paul.

And there is also room for whatever life I still have ahead of me.

I am trying to learn how to live again while carrying my son with me.

Some days I do better than others.

But I keep trying.

There Is No Timeline for Talking About Someone You Love

People shouldn’t have to stop talking about their child because a certain number of years have passed.

One year.

Five years.

Ten years.

Twenty years.

What number suddenly makes someone stop being your child?

There isn’t one.

If someone wants to talk about their child decades after their death, let them.

Listen.

Ask their child’s name.

Ask what they were like.

Ask about a favorite memory.

You might be giving that parent something incredibly valuable: permission to be a parent for a few minutes without feeling like their grief makes other people uncomfortable.

We shouldn’t be afraid of remembering people.

Remembering is one of the ways love continues.

I Will Always Say His Name

Paul.

My son.

Those words will always belong together.

I don’t know exactly what the rest of my life will look like.

I don’t know how grief will continue changing as the years pass.

I know there will be difficult anniversaries.

There will be birthdays he should have celebrated.

There will be milestones where I wonder what his life would have looked like.

There will probably always be moments when something happens and my first instinct is wishing I could tell him.

But I also know this:

I will keep going.

I will keep writing.

I will keep helping people when I can.

I will keep trying to become the man my son believed I could be.

And I will keep talking about him.

Not because I refuse to move forward.

Not because I want to live permanently in the past.

Not because grief is the only thing left in my life.

I talk about my son because he lived.

Because he mattered.

Because I love him.

Because I am proud to be his father.

And because death does not get the final word on love.

To Anyone Who Wonders Why We Still Talk About Our Children

If you know a parent whose child has died, don’t be surprised when they continue talking about their child years later.

Understand what is really happening.

They aren’t refusing to accept reality.

They aren’t necessarily “stuck.”

They are loving someone who is no longer physically present.

There is nothing strange about that.

Love does not disappear at a funeral.

Parenthood does not disappear when a child dies.

And memories don’t become meaningless because years have passed.

So if a grieving parent tells you about their child, listen.

If they say their child’s name, don’t change the subject.

If they share a memory, allow them to finish it.

And if you knew their child, share your own memories when appropriate.

You may never completely understand how much that can mean.

Why I Still Talk About My Son

I talk about Paul because he was here.

I talk about him because his life mattered.

I talk about him because being his father helped shape the person I am.

I talk about him because losing him changed me forever.

I talk about him because another grieving father may need to hear that it is okay to keep saying his child’s name.

I talk about him because telling his story is one way I can continue honoring him.

Most of all, I talk about Paul because I still love him.

That isn’t something I need to recover from.

That isn’t something time needs to erase.

That isn’t something I ever want to lose.

My son may no longer walk beside me, but his memory walks with me everywhere.

So I will continue saying his name.

I will continue telling his story.

I will continue carrying him in everything I do.

Paul will always be my son.

And I will always be his dad.

A Question for You

If you have lost a child or someone you deeply love, what is one memory about them you wish more people knew?

Say their name. Tell their story. Their life mattered.