Enduring the pain of holidays when you lose a child

Holidays used to sneak up on me. I’d barely notice the calendar flipping over to June. Maybe I’d see a sign in the grocery store or a rack of “World’s Best Dad” mugs by the checkout, but it never meant much. Father’s Day was just another Sunday. I was never the sentimental type. But everything changed after my daughter, Jasmine, passed away in 2019 from complications of cystic fibrosis.

Now the lead-up to Father’s Day feels like a strange kind of countdown. It’s not a celebration. It’s more like waiting for a storm you can’t do anything to stop. Every commercial, every “Don’t forget Dad” email, every display of cards and barbecue sets cuts a little deeper than it used to. Even the smallest things feel like reminders.

It’s not like the world tries to be cruel, it just doesn’t know any better. It keeps spinning, celebrating, and sending out those cheerful reminders: “Don’t forget Father’s Day.” As if I could ever forget.

Recommended Reading

April 22, 2026 Columns by Ed Jordan

Living with the ever-present grief of losing a child to cystic fibrosis

‘I wanted more time’

I didn’t get to hear Jasmine say, “Happy Father’s Day.” Not the way I’d always pictured it, at least. Not with that proud grin she had when she was feeling well. Not with her voice echoing throughout the house. Sometimes, when the house is quiet, I can still hear her laughter from the next room. Or her feet padding down the hallway on a summer morning. Sometimes, I almost believe she’s just sleeping in, that at any moment she’ll wander out with her hair a mess and a sleepy smile on her face. But pretending only works until it doesn’t. Eventually, the house is just quiet.

This past Father’s Day, I didn’t check my phone because I’m sure social media was plastered with pictures of fathers and their sons and daughters in matching shirts, having breakfast in bed or opening up a gift. These types of snapshots used to make me smile, but now they just feel like another reminder of what’s missing. I made coffee and sat on the back porch, watching the sun push through the clouds. The world was waking up to a day full of celebration, and I was just trying to get through it.

My mind drifted to Jasmine’s last summer and the way her hair caught the sunlight when she sat by the window, how she’d curl up beside me on the couch and complain about the heat. We’d laugh about it, even when neither of us really felt like laughing. I remember the way she looked at me when she needed reassurance because she was tired or scared. Even when things were hard, there was so much life in her. She wanted more time. We both did.

There’s no card for this kind of day. No Hallmark slogan for the hole Jasmine left in my life. Holidays turn into reminders instead of celebrations. I wanted to hear her voice again, just once. “Happy Father’s Day, Dad.” I wanted her to be here, breathing easily, not thinking about pancreatic enzymes, bronchial drainage treatments, or nebulizers. But she isn’t, and she won’t be. That’s the reality I wake up to every day. Not just on Father’s Day, but every day.

People say time heals wounds. While they mean well, time just changes the shape of the ache. It doesn’t disappear. It becomes a part of you. Some days it’s heavy, and other days I almost forget it’s there, but it never leaves. I carry Jasmine with me in the small things: the way I laugh at a dumb joke and remember her voice, and the way she looked at the world. Maybe that’s what being a father is: when the world keeps moving and your heart stays stuck. You keep loving, even if you’re the only one left to remember.

There are moments when I think about what Jasmine would have become, about the woman she could have grown into if life had been fair. I think about all the things we never got to do, all the words we never got to say. I wanted to hear her wish me a happy Father’s Day, to see her roll her eyes at my terrible grilling skills, to have those ordinary moments that most people take for granted. I wanted more time. That’s all any of us ever want.

So the day passes, and I make it through the way I always do. I carry her memory with me, through every ache and every gentle moment. Maybe that’s what keeps me going — not the holidays, the cards, the gifts, or the photos, just the memory of loving her and the hope that somewhere, somehow, she knows I’m still her dad and I love her and miss her with all my heart.

Note: Cystic Fibrosis News Today is strictly a news and information website about the disease. It does not provide medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. This content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician or other qualified health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read on this website. The opinions expressed in this column are not those of Cystic Fibrosis News Today or its parent company, Bionews, and are intended to spark discussion about issues pertaining to cystic fibrosis.