A Year On: What Grief Sounds Like

It’s been just over a year since my dad died, and I keep finding him in songs. Not in any mystical way — but in the way a single chord, or the first few words of an old track, can suddenly pull you into a place that feels like both now and then.

Music has always been part of my life, but this year it’s felt like something different — not just background noise or nostalgia, but a language I return to when words fall short.

When I was younger, I’d sit for hours with my CD player, repeating the same song over and over, writing out lyrics like they were clues to a mystery I was meant to solve. My family thought it was a bit obsessive, and maybe it was, but I think music was doing something for me that nothing else could. It steadied me. It gave me somewhere to put all the feelings that didn’t have names yet.

Not unlike a lot of people, I often felt slightly out of step with the world — not dramatically so, just a quiet sense of being tuned to a different frequency. Music was where that difference made sense. It offered a space I could fit myself into — a rhythm I could walk to. There’s a kind of freedom in that, the way a metaphor works in therapy: you see yourself more clearly through something else.

Later, when I discovered festivals and clubs, that private connection became something shared. It was like stepping into a collective heartbeat. Everyone moving, singing, feeling — together. For a while, you don’t have to explain yourself. Connection becomes easy. Judgement fades. It’s freedom disguised as fun, and it feels like belonging.

My dad loved music too. We would spend hours talking about songs — where he first heard a band, why a lyric mattered, the story behind an album. Those conversations were our way of being close. We didn’t need to talk about feelings; the songs did that for us. We shared a quiet competition to know every word. It was unspoken, but it was love. It was fun.

Now, he’s gone, and music has become the bridge between us. Certain songs bring him right back, like he’s stepped into the room and he's just there. Sometimes it hurts, sometimes it helps. But it always connects.

I’ve made a practice of it. Once a week, I sit with certain songs and let them do what they need to do, or I sit down and play the piano like we used to together. Sometimes that means tears, sometimes smiles, sometimes a stillness that feels close to peace. Music opens the door quickly and completely — it’s a way to meet myself, and him, in the same breath.

Feeling sad but also close to my dad has become part of my rhythm. It’s how I make grief work for me — how I honour love that hasn’t gone anywhere, even if he has.

When I talk with clients about loss, I often encourage them to explore their own ways of maintaining connection — not to hold on too tightly, but to allow the relationship to evolve. For some, that’s through art, walking, dancing, driving, nature, writing, or cooking.

A year on, I’ve realised grief doesn’t live in anniversaries or milestones — it weaves itself into the everyday. It shows up in the car when a song plays, in the supermarket aisle when you see their favourite biscuit, in the quiet moments when the world softens. It isn’t something to move through and finish; it’s something to live alongside and embrace.

I’ve also realised that meeting grief on purpose — instead of it ambushing me — has made me more present in the rest of my life. We’re so often encouraged to treat grief as something to avoid or “get through.” But when I sit with it, when I let the music open whatever needs to be opened, I come out of those moments more grounded. More available. More here. It’s a kind of personalised mindfulness practice that nourishes me.

And what I’ve noticed is that this time I spend "indulging grief" — stepping toward it rather than away — doesn’t just connect me to my dad. It connects me to everyone. Allowing myself to drop into that depth seems to make more room inside me. Room to relate. To hear people properly. To be moved. Grief has a way of widening the internal landscape; it expands, rather than contracts.

Grief is part of my everyday now. Not heavy or overwhelming — it's there, woven in. And when I make space for it, it helps and supports me, just like my dad always did.