I need to admit something. It’s the thing I hid from everyone, even myself, for years. The thing I told myself was "fine" while I was drowning. I avoided therapy after my wife died. Not just avoided it—I hated the idea of it. Like it was a personal failure. A sign I wasn’t strong enough to handle it alone.
Look, I’m no expert on grief. I’m just a guy who learned how to splice wires and change a flat tire, not how to untangle a heart full of broken glass. But here’s what I figured out: the hardest part wasn’t the grief itself. It was admitting I needed help to carry it.
For the first five years after Sarah passed—when our youngest, Maya, was just 2—I told myself I was fine. I’d say it out loud sometimes, like I was convincing the universe. "I’m fine," I’d mutter while wiping grease off my hands after a job, or when the kids asked why Mommy didn’t come home from the hospital. I’d say it to the empty chair at dinner, to the silence in the house, to the reflection in the dark window. But I wasn’t fine. I was running on fumes, pretending the engine was still running.
The truth is, I avoided therapy because I thought it meant I was weak. Like admitting I needed help was the same as admitting I’d failed as a husband, as a dad. Back when I was a kid, my old man would’ve called it "sissy stuff." "Men don’t cry," he’d say. "Men fix things." So I fixed things. I fixed leaky faucets, I fixed the furnace, I fixed the kids’ scraped knees. But I never fixed the thing inside me that was broken. I just kept pretending it wasn’t broken at all.
I’d sit in my truck after a long day, staring at the phone. The therapist’s number was saved in my contacts—Dr. Evans, Counseling. I’d scroll past it, then back again. Just click it, I’d tell myself. Just book the appointment. But I couldn’t. The thought of sitting across from a stranger, talking about Sarah, about how I’d wake up some mornings and not remember where I was, about the way Maya’s laugh still sounded like hers… it felt like tearing open a wound I’d already sealed shut with duct tape.
I hid it from the kids too. Maya, who was just a toddler when Sarah died, started asking questions. "Where’s Mommy?" "Why don’t we have a Mommy?" I’d say, "She’s in heaven, sweetie," and change the subject. But I’d lie to myself too. I’d tell myself, I don’t need therapy. I’m doing okay. I’m a good dad. I’d look at my kids—Eli, who was 5 when Sarah died, and Maya, who barely remembered her—and think, They need me strong. They don’t need me broken. So I stayed broken, but I made sure they never saw it.
The moment I finally stopped hiding? It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a big epiphany under a tree. It was a Tuesday night, after Eli had a nightmare about Mommy. He woke up screaming, "She’s gone! She’s gone!" I held him, rocking him in the dark, and he whispered, "Dad, why are you crying?"
I froze. I hadn’t even realized I was crying. I’d been sitting there, holding him, and the tears just… came. Not big sobs, just quiet ones, like the house was leaking. And Maya, who’d been sleeping on the floor beside us, stirred and said, "Dad, are you sad?"
That’s when it hit me: I’d been lying to my kids for years. Not just about Sarah, but about me. I’d been pretending I was fine, but they knew. They always knew. Eli had started sleeping with his mom’s old stuffed bear. Maya would ask about her hair color. They weren’t just kids—they were seeing me. And I’d been hiding in plain sight.
That night, I didn’t sleep. I sat on the porch, the cold air biting my face, and I finally clicked the therapist’s number. I didn’t even think about it. I just… did it. I booked the appointment. It was 8:17 PM. I didn’t feel brave. I felt like I’d just walked off a cliff. But I did it.
The first session was awful. I sat there, hands clenched, not saying much. Dr. Evans just listened. She didn’t push. She just said, "It’s okay to not be okay." And I realized—I hadn’t let myself be okay in years.
Here’s what changed: I stopped pretending I was fine. I started saying, "I’m not okay right now," to the kids. To Eli, when he was angry about school: "Yeah, I get it. I’ve felt that way too." To Maya, when she was scared of the dark: "Me too, sweetie. But we’re safe. I’m here." It didn’t fix everything. Some days, I still sat in the dark with the lights off. But I didn’t hide it anymore. I let them see me carry it.
And you know what? It didn’t make me weaker. It made me stronger. Because I wasn’t pretending to be someone I wasn’t. I was just… me. A dad who was still learning. A guy who’d lost his wife and was trying to figure out how to be a dad without her.
This is the hard truth I’ve learned: The first step isn’t about being ready. It’s about being unready. It’s about doing it even when you’re shaking. It’s about admitting you don’t know what you’re doing. And that’s okay.
I’ll tell you what I figured out: You don’t need to have it all figured out to take that first step. You don’t need to feel "ready." You just need to do the next thing.
Like when I was a kid, my dad taught me to fix a broken light fixture. "You don’t stare at the wires," he’d say. "You grab your pliers and start. One wire at a time." That’s how it is with grief. You don’t stare at the whole mess. You just grab the next wire.
So here’s my advice, straight from the toolbox:
1. Stop waiting for the perfect moment. It won’t come. The "perfect" moment is a myth. The first step is now, even if it’s tiny. Book the appointment. Call the friend. Say, "I’m struggling." It doesn’t have to be big. It just has to be real.
2. Let the kids see you be human. They don’t need a superhero. They need a dad who’s real. When I finally said, "I’m sad too," to Eli, he hugged me tighter. He didn’t need me to be strong. He needed me to be there.
3. You don’t have to do it all at once. I didn’t go to therapy and suddenly feel "better." I just went. One session. Then another. Then I started talking. It wasn’t a magic fix. It was just… a start.
4. It’s okay to not be okay. That’s the hardest part to admit. But it’s the truth. You don’t have to be "fine" to be a good dad, a good husband, a good person. You just have to show up.
I still miss Sarah every damn day. Some days, it’s like a physical ache. But now, I don’t hide it. I let it be there. And I’ve learned that missing her doesn’t mean I’m failing. It means I loved her. And that’s okay.
The first step was the hardest because I was afraid of what I’d find. But the truth? It wasn’t scary. It was just… real. And once I took that step, the next one wasn’t so bad.
You don’t have to be strong to take that first step. You just have to do it.
— Jimmy Hawkins, just a dad figuring it out