The Quiet Grief of Wasted Talent

My mom is grieving the loss of her estranged father. I may write more about that at some point. His death stirred something unexpected in me—a deeper reflection on the grief I carry for someone still alive. This is a creative processing of that grief.

There’s a particular kind of grief that doesn’t come with funerals.
No memorial. No closure. Just a steady, slow ache for someone who’s still alive.

He is, without question, one of the most talented people I’ve ever known.
He has rhythm in his body, music in his bones. He plays guitar like it’s an extension of himself—like it was always meant to be there.
He’s smart. Quirky. Unapologetically inventive.
He thinks outside the box in a way that taught me how to be creative, how to find workarounds, how to build systems that saved my ass in school and in life.

He’s the reason I’m entrepreneurial.
He’s the reason I’m tech-savvy.

And still, his brilliance stays mostly untouched, like a gift no one ever helped him unpack.

I have grit.
Education, career, self-worth—all without a safety net.

But I didn’t come from a legacy of that.
I didn’t grow up around models of stability or growth or self-discipline.
No blueprint.

And even if I become an award-winning therapist—
Even if I write books or speak on panels or build something truly lasting—
That’s still my dad to visit.
And the bar is still where he’ll be.

I don’t say that for pity.
It's not something I'm ashamed of. It's not my shame.
I say it because there’s this quiet reality no one talks about when you come from trauma, or poverty, or generational loss:

You don’t graduate out of your roots.
You just learn how to live alongside them.

I’m not trying to change him.
It’s not enabling. I rarely see him. And when I do, the bar is where he’s most himself.
If I refused to go, we simply wouldn’t share space.
And I’ve made peace with that.

It’s not my job to help my parents.
It never was.
I love them unconditionally, as they have me.

But sometimes I sit beside my dad, drink in hand, the familiar hum of the bar and stale beer smell around us—
and I feel the strangest mix of grief and love.

Because this is where he stayed.
And I kept going.