Today marks two years since my dad died. Even now, I want to run down the stairs to tell him something. His room is quiet, yet our dog and his favourite cat still sleep outside his door, pining though his belongings are gone.
I’ve learned there’s a name for this stage of life: adult orphanism. Traditionally, “orphan” meant a child who lost both parents. Increasingly, it’s used for adults too (Elephant Journal). When the last of your parents dies, you don’t just grow older — you become different. You become the family elder. For some, that means being surrounded by siblings and relatives. For me, I am a solo child — not an only child, but the only one left.
I am blessed to have my son, Mini, and a circle of chosen family. Yet the absence of a family of origin makes anniversaries sharper. With chosen kin I can say “Do you remember when Dad…?” and be met with care. But it isn’t the same.
Who Dad Was
Dad was gentle, steady, resilient, and funny. He served quietly — in catering committees, seniors’ programs, political events — teaching me that service doesn’t have to be loud to matter.
He loved chai. When I was studying, he would drop off thermoses — often enough for my colleagues, too. When he was sick, he had his aides brew chai and waved me over with grand gestures. His last request was that I make chai. I was in the kitchen, making it, as he passed. Two years later, I still cannot bring myself to make it. The grief sits in the cup.
He also loved to dance. As a child I stood on his feet to Harry Belafonte; later, we spun around kitchens to Elvis or Chevy Chase; at my wedding he twirled me again. He carried joy in his steps across every season of my life.
Caregiving and Continuity
Caregiving began with him, but it didn’t end there. I still support other family members and hold space as a doula. These roles taught me how grief and care intertwine: exhausting, sacred, and embodied.
We often discuss grief’s mental health impact — sadness, depression, prolonged grief disorder. Less spoken is the physical: research shows grief affects immunity, sleep, and long-term health (American Heart Association). Acknowledging this helps normalize why grief feels so all-encompassing.
Rituals and Affirmation
The second year is lonelier. The casseroles never came, but my colleagues and chosen family did. Last year, our ritual was going to one of Dad’s places, returning feathers, branches, and leaves. A kind of affirmation ceremony — a way to honour his life, my grief, and connection to nature.
Grief isn’t just absence; it can also be continuation and return.
Parenting Through Orphanism
Raising Mini deepens this journey. Parenthood is grounding and confronting: it roots me in the future, but highlights the absence of my own parents. Scholars describe parental loss as a shift “from adult child to family elder” (Marshall, 2004). Parenting in this context doubles the weight: I am memory-keeper and guide at once.
I haven’t journaled my memories, but I’ve channelled them into work. In two years, I’ve published four books. The My Ismaili series carries both my parents’ names and spirit, and Reflections offers contemplative space to honour them. Writing became my legacy work for them.
What Helps
Affirmation ceremonies. Rituals — candles, tea, nature offerings — affirm both love and loss.
Chosen kin. Community and colleagues can witness grief when family of origin cannot.
Story-keeping. Whether through books, conversations, or art, stories keep memory alive.
Allowing both/and. Relief and guilt, tears and laughter, pride and exhaustion coexist.
Workplaces and Grief
Workplaces often minimize grief with three days’ leave. But loss reshapes months, even years. Compassionate policies help:
Check-ins at 3, 6, and 12 months.
Flexibility around probate, anniversaries, and caregiving transitions.
Visible pathways to EAP and mental health supports.
Disenfranchised grief — loss unrecognized by society — is real (Doka, 1989). Workplaces can counter this by validating, not minimizing, grief.
Resources
Closing Note
I hold my grief in rituals: affirmation ceremonies in nature, telling Mini the funny stories, keeping music alive in our kitchen.
Adult orphanism is not just about losing your parents. It is about carrying forward when your family of origin is gone. It is about anchoring others while carrying absence yourself. Two years in, I know grief doesn’t end. It reshapes. It teaches me to hold both longing and love in the same breath.