Growing up, I was always surrounded by the love and support of my parents. They were my safe place, my superheroes, my confidants, and cheerleaders. Looking up at them, they seemed like the biggest, strongest, and most solid people in the whole world. No matter what came my way, they would be the two pillars I could lean on. More specifically, they would be two shoulders I could cry on.  

What no one prepares you for is the first time you see your dad breakdown in tears in front of you. When you take him into your arms and hold on tight, realizing that you have now become the pillar of strength and the shoulder to cry on you so desperately relied on as a child. I remember coming home from school, following my normal routine of dropping my backpack right by the door as I shucked off my coat and bent over to untie my patterned, pink shoelaces. I stood up and stuffed them into the closet, sliding the door closed as I turned to greet my dad with a big smile on my face – he would always be standing there waiting for me. But instead of being greeted by a small smile and his typical “Hey Buddy, how was your day?”, my dad was standing perfectly still in the middle of our living room, his uniform still on and phone tucked against one ear as his face crumpled in on itself. He hung up as I took a few small steps forward, his shoulders sagging as he glanced up at me with tear-filled eyes – “my sister’s gone. My little sister’s gone.” Before I knew it, I was there hugging him tightly, doing my best to hold up all six-foot-two of him with my tiny, five-foot-two, 12-year-old body.  

The moment you finally see that your parents aren’t invincible, and that even they can’t fix  everything, is one that you never forget. At least, in my case, I certainly haven’t. My family has  an involved, detailed history with loss, specifically loss that results from cancer. Since I was 12  years old, my family has suffered the loss of three women in our family due to the vicious  disease, two of them being my aunts and the other being my great-grandmother. By some  unfortunate twist of fate, both of my parents lost their sister, and me, my aunts, exactly one year  apart on the same day, almost within the hour. Exactly one year after seeing my dad cry for the first time, and holding him up as he processed his loss, I held my mom as we stood at the foot of my aunt’s hospital bed, watching as she took her last breath. I watched my grandparents cry as they watched her heart rate flatline, and my cousin’s shoulders shake as he held his mom’s hand for the last time.  

I was at both funerals, dressed in all black and both accepting and offering condolences, unsure of when it was okay to laugh or cry at such a somber event. It was within that period of my life  that I learned what it is to become a pillar of strength for those you love. I learned that just because I was the kid, it didn’t mean that I couldn’t be someone to lean upon for my parents. Others have referred to this moment of realization as the beginning of the end of my childhood – the day I learnt what it meant to be a grown up and the day I realized the world isn’t all sunshine and rainbows. However, to me, it’s just simply learning how to love, how to grieve, and how to support those around you in difficult situations. My childhood didn’t end because of loss or because of the realization that my parents were humans who also needed help sometimes too. All of it is just a part of growing up and learning to offer others the same love and support your parents gave you, from the moment you took your first breath to the moment they take their last.

It hasn’t been easy, especially since almost six years later, I still don’t think I’ve really taken the time to process my grief. My dad slowly made his way through it, and my mom is still processing hers, but I feel like I’ve been stuck in time the past few years, just simply trying to make sure everyone around me is okay. Until the past couple of weeks, I don’t think I understood the importance of making sure you’re alright too, because while my parents did lose a sister – which is a type of pain I can’t even begin to understand – I also lost my aunts. Although I had differing relationships with both of my aunts, one felt like a second mom to me, and I still haven’t come to terms with the fact that I’m slowly forgetting the sound of her laugh or the shape of the port wine stain that spilled across her arm and chest.  

So, while learning to bear the weight and sadness of others like your parents did for you when you were little is so important, remember to save some of that strength for yourself too. You just never know when you might need it. 

HEADER BY: VALERIE LETTS