The Year I Danced and Mourned at the Same Time

Last year, I laughed and cried more than any other since I was a child. My beloved father went into the ICU right before Purim and passed away on the last day of Passover. Two months later, my youngest son became a bar mitzvah, and one week after that, my oldest son got married.

I moved between hospital corridors and dance floors, between eulogies and speeches, between the sharpness of bereavement and the fullness of joy. Sometimes the emotions arrived together, messy, tangled, and inseparable.

How could I feel so much sadness and so much gratitude in the same breath? How could my heart break and expand at the same time?

But mixed emotions are what happens when we love deeply and life matters. Love doesn’t fade with grief, it just changes form, and that sorrow and blessing often walk side by side.

Here are some reflections from this past year of mourning.

Holding On While Letting Go

My father lived across the ocean from me. When he went into the ICU, I flew out the next morning, leaving a full house and my work behind. I stayed for two weeks, sleeping in his hospital room at night and being with him at every opportunity. I learned that when life becomes uncertain, there is no formality, no pretense, no fences. Those days were a gift, painful and precious at the same time, and I am forever grateful for them.

Me and my father

I planned to return to visit him right after Passover, but my father didn’t make it that long. I regretted not seeing him again but I know we had already said goodbye. Our last conversation was full and honest, and his final words to me were, “I love you.” Holding on to that love helped me let go of the rest.

Silence that Allows Healing

Jewish law instructs mourners to step back from music, movies, and celebrations for a specified period. For bereaved children, this is a full 12 months. I braced myself for it, imagining a kind of emotional confinement. But the stillness surprised me. In the absence of melody, my memories had a space to just be. Without the parties or the entertainment, my grief and gratitude could sit beside each other without competition.

What felt like a restriction slowly revealed itself as a quiet kind of blessing, a silence that held me while I healed.

There is a Space in My Heart which Cannot be Filled and That’s Okay

For a long time after my father’s passing, I kept looking to others to fill the space he left behind. I wanted them to offer the same calm reassurance, the same steady guidance, the same gentle way my father had of making everything feel manageable. When it didn’t happen, I felt frustrated and hurt.

But I slowly realized that no one could step into that role. That space wasn’t meant to be filled by someone else. It was the shape of my father’s presence in my life.

And then I noticed something else: I still carried his voice inside me. Whenever I needed him, I could talk to him. I knew exactly how he would respond, what he would say, how he would say it, and the tone he would use. His words, his warmth, his way of seeing me didn’t disappear. They are still there, woven into who I am.

When There’s Joy, Lean In

When moments of joy came that year, they felt unusually intense. At the celebrations of my sons, I knew I wouldn’t be dancing again for a long while, so I let myself dance with everything I had. The happiness wasn’t straightforward; it was filled with longing. My father was deeply missed, but he was present in our words, in our thoughts, and in the way we brought his memory into the occasion.

My son and daughter-in-law during Sheva Brachot

There is a Jewish belief that all the close relatives of the couple stand with them under the chuppah. I held onto that on my son’s wedding day. As I felt the ache of his absence, I also felt the comfort of knowing he was with us in a different way. The sadness was there, but so was the joy, and somehow, they each made the other more real.

We have an eternal connection

While I was sitting shiva, someone told me that everything children do in this world continues in the merit of their parents’ souls, even if they don’t explicitly do it in their parents’ name. When I do a mitzvah, when I give charity, any of the goodness I bring into the world, all of it elevates my father’s soul even further.

Judaism also believes that the soul remains connected to its descendants. It intercedes on their behalf and guides them toward the right path. Because we live in physical bodies, our awareness of that connection is limited, but it is still there. Our relationship with our loved ones does not end after their passing; it is eternal.

This year of mourning has taught me that I can live with both the blessing and the ache of love and loss. My father’s absence is always there now, but so are his values, his words, his choices, and the way he lived his life. His love continues to guide me.

In loving memory of Dovid Pinchas HaLevy Ben Mordechai