Message Received

There are moments in life that don’t look important while they are happening.

They only become heavy later.

Almost thirty years ago, my dad came to my house for Thanksgiving. We did not have an easy or healthy relationship, so when he asked to come, I was surprised. He lived about an hour away, so I picked him up and brought him home to be with me, my kids, and my friends. He stayed a few days. It was… unexpectedly nice.

At dinner, when we went around the table saying what we were thankful for, he said he was thankful for me. He said he was proud of me, that I was a good mother, and that I worked hard. He also said that I was kind, which mattered to me. He had never said those words to me in my entire childhood. I held them like something fragile.

When I brought him home, he asked if I could stay a little longer. Maybe have lunch. Maybe just sit. I was in my twenties, I had things to do, life felt busy and loud and urgent. I said I couldn’t stay.

I could tell he was disappointed, I felt it the entire drive home.

That night, I called him and left a message on his answering machine. I told him I was sorry, and that I would make it up to him. I offered to come the following weekend and we could spend the day together. The next morning, I left another message. That evening, another. This was before cell phones. He never picked up.

The following day, my aunt called. He was in the hospital with pneumonia.

My dad had lived for years with Guillain-Barré syndrome, something not well understood at the time. His body was weakened by it, though I didn’t know he was sick when he stayed with me. I went to the hospital. He died that night. I watched him die. I didn’t sit next to his bed, I didn’t hold his hand, I didn’t say goodbye, I didn't say anything at all.

A few days later, we gathered to clean out his apartment. I noticed the answering machine light blinking, there were three messages. I pushed "play," they were all from me. He had never heard my voice telling him I was sorry, telling him that I would come back.

I went home and sat in my sadness for hours. Guilt settled into my body. Regret. And the ache of knowing that whatever might have been between us was now impossible.

So I did something instinctive. I sat at my coffee table and lit a small tea light candle. I spoke to it. I told it everything. I apologized for not staying. I apologized for anything I might have done as a child that made him treat me the way he did. I forgave him for what he could never give me. I accepted the apologies he never spoke. I said everything I needed to say.

When I blew out the candle, the smoke rose slowly toward the ceiling, and I remember thinking, "message received." And whether that was true in any literal way didn’t matter, what mattered was this: my body felt lighter, I felt peace, and I gave myself permission, real permission, to let it go.

I still feel sadness when I think about that day, but I no longer carry the weight of punishment. That candle taught me something I didn’t yet have language for. Years later, working in end-of-life care, I would come to understand ritual and ceremony as medicine for the living.

So I want to offer this to you...

If you are carrying guilt. If you missed a moment. If there are words that never got spoken. If someone died before you were ready...

Light a candle, say it all, out loud or in a whisper. Apologize. Forgive. Rage. Grieve. Love. Let yourself say the things that have nowhere else to go.

When you are finished, blow out the candle, and watch the smoke rise. Let that be the moment you know in your heart that your message has been received.

We are human. We do the best we can with what we know at the time. And sometimes, healing doesn’t come from fixing the past, but from honoring it and letting it rest.

You are allowed to let it go. Give yourself permission to let it go.

xo

Gabby