When it is time, you can say goodbye.

The Weight of Unspoken Words

I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I don’t feel like writing about it. Yet, it still matters.

Those were the words swirling in my head over the past few months. Writing has always been therapeutic for me, yet I have felt stuck—unsure of where to begin or how to restart. Do I have anything left to say? What if I just start typing? But then, either there aren’t enough words, or there are so many that I can’t seem to pin them down. Where do I even start?

The internal monologue continued, a constant hum in the background of my thoughts. Then, as if the universe had grown impatient with my hesitation, it sent me undeniable nudges. I had ignored previous ones, but these were louder. Over the past year, people had reached out to tell me how much my writing resonated with them as they processed their own losses. Yet, I felt I had no more words, so I remained silent.

A Nudge from the Universe

Then, in the span of two weeks, two different people nudged me to write again—one a long-time friend, the other a stranger. My friend, whom I hadn’t seen in years, simply asked, “Why did you stop writing?” The stranger found my blog through an email reply and sent me a message:

“Don’t stop writing. Your blog spoke to me and blessed me. As someone who has lost a parent, it resonated deeply. I cried, and I felt better.”

I started writing. Maybe the words would come. I tried the entire week, but they remained scarce. I kept trying, grasping for sentences that never fully formed. Then came Father’s Day, Sunday, June 16.

The Bittersweet Weight of Father’s Day

I woke up thinking of my dad—how he had come to treasure our phone calls on Father’s Day, how his voice had carried both strength and tenderness. The day was filled with fond memories and aching sadness, the longing for one more conversation, one more Father’s Day, one more Christmas. But that was a different universe, one that no longer existed. The best I could do was bid him another goodbye—and as many goodbyes as I needed.

And then, the words came. Something within me stirred, and I wrote.

Goodbye is a Process

My thoughts drifted back to January when we commemorated Mum’s first memorial anniversary. After a beautiful memorial service, I felt ready to say a proper goodbye. The day had a tranquil beauty to it. Despite the heavy rains that made the roads nearly impassable, friends and family still came. The choir sang, and as we unveiled the cross and laid fresh flowers, I tried to say goodbye.

This time, I could see where her grave was. That might sound strange, but during the funeral, it had felt as if the grave had shifted—my mind refusing to fully comprehend that she was gone. I remember a friend urging me, “Look and say goodbye,” but I could barely manage it. A year later, it felt possible.

That day, I realized one of the greatest gifts I had received in my grief: the presence of friends and relatives who had walked with us through the darkest moments. It mattered. I was saying goodbye to my mother—not just acknowledging her passing, but truly letting go of the grasping conversations I had been having in my head, the silent questions without answers.

Carrying Their Blessings

And there they were, my parents, side by side. Just a year apart. The pillars of our family were gone. A wave of loneliness washed over me.

That same night, I was leaving for Cairo. It was a significant journey, and somehow, I felt I was carrying them with me in my heart. I had no idea what awaited me in ‘Pharaoh’s land’, but I held on to the thought that they were with me in ways that transcended physical presence.

Still, I kept moving. I needed to return to Nairobi for last-minute travel preparations, yet I found myself lingering. I wandered from one room to another, not quite ready to leave. My friend patiently waited in the car, engine running, but I couldn’t stop pacing. It wasn’t about reaching 10,000 steps—I was searching for something. One more thing to do, one more person to embrace, one more goodbye to say.

A Blessing Before the Journey

And then my cousin found me.

“My mum has been looking for you,” she said. “She must see you before she leaves.”

I wondered why. And then, my aunt—my ‘younger mum’ in Kikuyu tradition—blessed me. She placed her hands on me and prayed. I don’t know if she fully understood what that meant to me. But in that moment, something settled in my heart. Moments later, two of my uncles—my ‘younger dads’—called me over.

“Oh, we’ve been looking for you. We must bless you before you go.”

Tears welled in my eyes. My parents had blessed me—through them. By proxy.

Finally, I felt ready to leave.

Living with the New Reality

Grief has taught me that goodbyes aren’t singular events. They unfold over time, in layers. I have said goodbye to my parents countless times in the past two years, and I will continue to do so. But I also carry them with me. Their absence doesn’t lessen the love, and remembering them doesn’t deepen the grief—it simply means I have learned to live in this new reality.

I miss them no less. But now, when I think of them, the tears are softer, the memories warmer. Saying goodbye does not mean forgetting. The love remains, woven into the fabric of my being.

And so, I keep writing.

“We do not “get over” a death. We learn to carry the grief and integrate the loss in our lives. In our hearts, we carry those who have died. We grieve and we love. We remember.” ― Nathalie Himmelrich,

For me, saying goodbye again and again is part of my process of letting go and accepting that life as I knew it would never be the same. It is also a process of appreciating that there are still precious experiences ahead, and I want to live fully—not just look at the grave.

A friend once told me that when people leave this physical life, we can take solace in knowing that we can speak with them wherever we are, no longer constrained by time and space. When the moment feels right, we can say goodbye, over and over, as needed.

What remains are the memories—both joyful and painful. The illness and death are memories I wish were not part of the experience, but they, too, have shaped me. There are lessons in life, and there are lessons in loss. I cherish them all.

Losing my parents has deepened my empathy in ways I never anticipated. It has given me a purpose—to walk alongside others in their grief, to support those with ailing parents, to offer a hand when the weight feels unbearable. Sometimes, even when my own cup is nearly empty, I find that giving fills it up again.

And so, I keep writing.

“I remember my mother’s prayers, and they have always followed me. They have clung to me all my life.” – Abraham Lincoln

Like Lincoln, I am convinced that my mother’s prayers will follow me all the days of my life. My father’s prayers lift my spirits, and the dreams he once carried continue to inspire me. His hopes and aspirations fuel my motivation, giving me the strength to keep going.

At times, when life felt overwhelming, I found myself wondering, What would they have wished for me? It may seem cliché, but in my lowest moments, that thought has helped me rise again.

Goodbye is not a single moment—it is a journey, a slow and ongoing process of healing. It cannot be rushed; it happens day by day. We keep moving forward because, in truth, it is never really goodbye. Our loved ones remain with us, woven into the memories we carry in our hearts.

And when the time is right, we learn how to say goodbye.