For many people, October is one of the best months of the year.

The weather begins to cool. Leaves change colors. Pumpkins appear on porches. Halloween decorations go up. Families start thinking about Thanksgiving and Christmas. There is something about October that makes people think about cozy evenings, fall traditions, football, pumpkin spice, and spending time with the people they love.

I understand why people love October.

But October is not a good month for me.

It hasn’t been for years.

For me, October carries a date that changed my life forever.

October 25, 2021.

That is the day my son, Paul, passed away.

And no matter how many years go by, when October arrives, part of me immediately knows what is coming.

The calendar begins moving toward the 25th.

And I feel it.

Sometimes before I even realize why.

October Feels Different Now

Grief has a strange relationship with time.

You can go through months where you feel like you’re learning how to live again. You can laugh. You can work. You can make plans. You can meet people. You can write. You can help others. You can even have moments when life feels almost normal.

Then a certain month appears on the calendar.

Suddenly, memories that seemed manageable become heavier.

October does that to me.

The beginning of the month may seem ordinary, but somewhere in the back of my mind there is a countdown happening.

October 1.

October 5.

October 10.

October 15.

October 20.

And eventually…

October 25.

The closer that date gets, the harder it becomes to ignore.

I don’t need anyone to remind me.

My heart remembers.

October 25 Divided My Life Into Before and After

There are certain days that divide your life into two parts.

There is the person you were before that day.

And there is the person you became afterward.

October 25, 2021, is that day for me.

Before that day, I was Paul’s father.

I still am his father, and I always will be.

But before October 25, I could see him.

I could talk to him.

I could hear his voice.

I could call him.

I could sit beside him.

I could share everyday moments with him that I never imagined would someday become priceless memories.

Then everything changed.

My son was only 21 years old when he died in a car accident.

Twenty-one.

There should have been decades ahead of him.

There should have been more birthdays, holidays, conversations, disagreements, laughter, accomplishments, mistakes, adventures, and ordinary days.

There should have been so much more life.

Instead, I was left trying to understand how a father continues living when his child doesn’t get to.

That is something I am still trying to understand.

People See a Date. I See a Life.

To someone else, October 25 is simply another square on the calendar.

To me, it represents an entire life.

It represents my son.

It represents everything we experienced together.

It represents memories nobody else will ever completely understand because they belonged to the two of us.

When you lose someone you love, the anniversary of their death isn’t only about remembering the day they died.

You remember everything.

You remember their personality.

Their voice.

Their habits.

The things that made you laugh.

The things that drove you crazy.

The conversations you wish you could have one more time.

You remember who you were when they were still here.

Sometimes that is one of the hardest parts.

I don’t only miss Paul.

I miss the life I had when Paul was here.

I Miss the Ordinary Things

People often think grief is mostly about missing the big moments.

Birthdays.

Christmas.

Father’s Day.

Vacations.

Celebrations.

Those days are difficult, but sometimes I miss the ordinary moments even more.

I miss simply knowing my son was here.

There is something incredibly comforting about knowing someone you love exists somewhere in this world.

Maybe they’re in another room.

Maybe they’re at work.

Maybe they’re driving somewhere.

Maybe you haven’t talked to them all day.

But they’re here.

You can call them.

You can text them.

You can see them tomorrow.

After someone dies, that possibility disappears.

And that silence can be overwhelming.

There are still moments when I wish I could pick up my phone and call Paul.

There are things I would tell him.

Things I would ask him.

Things happening in my life that I wish I could share with him.

Sometimes I wonder what advice he would give me.

Sometimes I just wish I could hear his voice.

I don’t need a long conversation.

Sometimes I would give anything just to hear:

“Dad.”

Grief Doesn’t Follow a Calendar

People sometimes assume that grief becomes easier because enough years have passed.

Time certainly changes grief.

But time doesn’t erase love.

And because the love remains, there will always be moments when the loss hurts.

I have learned how to carry grief better than I did in the beginning.

That doesn’t mean it has disappeared.

There is a difference between healing and forgetting.

I don’t want to forget.

I don’t want to reach a point where October 25 becomes just another day.

Paul mattered too much for that.

My son existed.

He lived.

He loved.

He mattered.

He changed my life.

And his life deserves to be remembered.

Sometimes the Days Before Are Harder

One thing people may not understand about death anniversaries is that the difficult part isn’t always the anniversary itself.

Sometimes it is the days leading up to it.

Your mind begins remembering.

You start thinking about where you were at this time years ago.

You think:

At this point, I still had my son.

That thought can be devastating.

You remember that you didn’t know what was coming.

Life was moving normally.

There was no giant warning sign telling you that everything was about to change.

That is one of the cruel realities of tragedy.

There was a final ordinary day.

A final conversation.

A final goodbye.

A final moment.

But you didn’t necessarily know it was the last one when it happened.

If you had known, you would have held on longer.

You would have said more.

You would have memorized every detail.

But life doesn’t usually tell us when we’re experiencing something for the final time.

The World Keeps Moving

Another difficult part about grief is realizing that the world doesn’t stop when yours does.

People continue going to work.

Restaurants remain open.

Traffic continues moving.

People celebrate birthdays.

Children play.

People fall in love.

Someone somewhere is having the happiest day of their life while someone else is experiencing the worst.

When Paul died, my world changed forever.

But the rest of the world kept going.

Eventually, I had to start moving with it again.

That wasn’t easy.

There were days when simply getting through the day felt like an accomplishment.

There were times when I didn’t know what my life was supposed to look like anymore.

Because so much of my identity was connected to being Paul’s dad.

I Am Still His Father

Death changes many things.

But it cannot change this:

Paul is my son.

Not “was.”

Is.

I will always be his father.

There isn’t a day when that relationship suddenly expires.

Love doesn’t work that way.

A father’s love doesn’t disappear because his child is no longer physically here.

If anything, sometimes it becomes even more powerful because there is nowhere for that love to go.

So I carry it.

I carry my love for Paul into everything I do.

Into my writing.

Into the way I try to help grieving people.

Into the way I look at life.

Into the person I am trying to become.

I cannot change what happened on October 25, 2021.

But I can decide what I do with the years I have left.

Turning Pain Into Purpose

One reason I write about grief is because I know someone else is sitting somewhere believing nobody understands what they are experiencing.

Especially fathers.

Men are often expected to be strong.

We’re expected to hold everything together.

We’re expected to protect everyone else.

Sometimes people ask how everyone else in the family is doing before they ever ask the father.

So fathers learn to suffer quietly.

I understand that silence.

But I also know what can happen when we finally start talking.

Maybe something I write reaches another father at two in the morning when he can’t sleep because he misses his child.

Maybe he reads my words and realizes someone else understands.

Maybe he realizes that surviving another day is enough.

Maybe Paul’s story helps someone I’ve never met.

If that happens, then something meaningful can still grow from unimaginable pain.

It doesn’t make Paul’s death okay.

Nothing ever will.

But it gives me a reason to keep telling his story.

Moving Forward Doesn’t Mean Leaving Him Behind

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

You laugh and feel guilty.

You enjoy something and wonder whether you’re supposed to.

You start making plans again and part of you thinks:

How can I build a future when my son doesn’t get one?

I’ve had to learn something important.

Moving forward doesn’t mean leaving Paul behind.

I take him with me.

Not physically.

But through memory.

Through love.

Through the lessons he taught me.

Through the person I am becoming because I had the privilege of being his father.

There are still things I want to accomplish.

There are still people I want to help.

There are still experiences I want to have.

There are still chapters of my life that haven’t been written.

Living those chapters doesn’t diminish my love for my son.

In many ways, living them honors him.

October Will Probably Always Hurt

I don’t know if October will ever feel completely normal again.

Maybe it won’t.

Maybe certain months aren’t supposed to become ordinary after something life-changing happens.

October will always contain October 25.

And October 25 will always remind me of the worst phone call, the worst news, and the greatest loss of my life.

But October also reminds me of something else.

It reminds me how deeply I loved my son.

Because grief is not proof that something is wrong with me.

Grief is evidence that someone mattered.

And Paul mattered.

He still matters.

If October Is Difficult for You Too

Maybe October carries a painful date for you.

Maybe you lost someone you love.

Maybe this month reminds you of a relationship ending, a diagnosis, a tragedy, a betrayal, or another moment that changed your life.

You don’t have to pretend the month doesn’t affect you.

Some dates hurt.

Some seasons carry memories.

And sometimes simply acknowledging that truth makes the weight a little easier to understand.

Give yourself permission to remember.

Say their name.

Tell their stories.

Look at the pictures.

Cry if you need to.

Laugh at the memories that still make you smile.

There is no rule saying grief must always look like sadness.

Sometimes grief looks like remembering something funny and smiling for the first time all day.

That counts too.

October 25 Will Always Be Paul’s Day

When October 25 arrives, I know it will hurt.

I will think about the life my son should still be living.

I will think about who he might have become.

I will think about everything we lost.

But I will also remember what I had.

For 21 years, I got to be Paul’s father.

I got to know him.

I got to love him.

I got to watch him become his own person.

No tragedy can erase those years.

Death may have taken away the future I expected with my son, but it cannot take away the past we shared.

Those memories belong to me forever.

So no, October isn’t a good month for me.

It probably never will be.

But I will make it through.

One day at a time.

One memory at a time.

One October at a time.

And when October 25 comes, I will do what I have learned to do since losing my son.

I will remember.

I will grieve.

I will say his name.

And then somehow, I will keep going.

Because I am still Paul’s father.

Because his life still matters.

Because my love for my son did not end on October 25, 2021.

And as long as I am here, Paul will always be my son, his story will always be part of mine, and I will continue carrying his memory with me wherever life takes me.

For anyone who struggles when a painful month or anniversary returns: What memory of the person you love do you most want to keep alive?