Rest, Grief, and the Weight My Father Carried
Two weeks ago, I attended a mini-retreat called “Daddy’s Girl Getaway: The Reset,” hosted by my sorority sister. It turned out to be the perfect way to spend a Sunday afternoon, offering both reflection and connection with other women who lost their fathers. During one of the mindfulness activities, we were asked to imagine our dads sitting at a table with us. I connected to this activity the most; it was a powerful and emotional exercise. With that image in mind, we were then invited to write a letter to our fathers. Here’s the letter that I wrote to my dad.
Dear Dad,
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Rest. That’s the word I keep coming back to today. You always talked about rest, asking if I was resting or telling me I needed to. I can still hear your voice as I sit here. You especially wanted me to rest after Sunday service. Now, I’m at a grief retreat on a Sunday, thinking about what rest meant to you. I don’t think you ever really got to rest, not in your body or your mind. You fought so many battles in your head, trying to figure out what was real, and later, dealing with dementia and trying to put the memories of your life back together. I don’t think you ever truly rested as a Black man from Philadelphia, as a husband, or as a father. I wish someone could have helped carry your burdens. Maybe then the stress and the pressure to keep working, providing, or appearing strong was at the expense of your health. I wonder about that. Now that you’re gone, you can finally rest your mind and body. Rest on!
My Reflection
September always stands out to me. It’s the month my dad died, his birthday, and also Alzheimer’s Awareness Month. Looking back, I see that rest was always hard for him because he was always working, sometimes 50 or 60 hours a week. My dad worked several jobs to pay for his college education. After graduation, he worked full-time as a cameraman for Channel 6, ran his own business for years, and was a pastor. He was also a husband, father, son, and brother. As a Black man born in the 1950s, he was taught to keep going and provide for his family without showing emotion. He never really got to rest, and eventually, it caught up with him. He had a mental breakdown and was never quite the same. After that, he often talked about “rest.” I think he regretted not learning what rest really meant earlier in life. He didn’t have examples of Black men taking care of their physical, mental, or emotional health. Black men of that era weren’t taught the importance of self-care, self-preservation, or even how to take a vacation day, let alone a sick day to visit a physician or dentist for regular check-ups. It was very common for men at the time to seek medical attention when something was seriously wrong, and by then, it was often too late to reverse or improve the health concern. My dad, like many others, was taught to keep working, hide his feelings, and move forward. He definitely did not understand the meaning of “rest is resistance” and how difficult it may have been for him to permit himself to stop. Back then, there were no “Black Men Heal” support groups for men to find connection. These were his survival skills, even if they weren’t healthy.
Stress can take a toll on Black men, especially when they also have chronic health problems. Many Black men don’t have the freedom to grow old without extra pressures. You can only ignore or push down your feelings for so long before you break. My dad covered news stories in Philadelphia for 23 years and saw things he couldn’t forget. When he came home and was very quiet, it meant he had covered a story that really bothered him. My dad always seemed deep in thought, carrying heavy demands and reminding me to rest. Even after he’s gone, I still have questions about his life. If I could sit with him today, on what would have been his 76th birthday, I wonder what advice he would give his younger self, an 18-year-old high school graduate, about the importance of rest. This is just a glimpse of my father’s world, but it reflects a reality for many men. I encourage men to prioritize rest in whatever form works for them. Your presence, mind, body, and spirit matter to the people who love you.
