Grief in the Midst of Joy

The Weight of June

June has always been a month of mixed emotions for me. It starts with Father’s Day or my daughter’s birthday, depending on where the calendar lands. Then comes my husband’s birthday at the end of the month and our wedding anniversary just a few days later. This year, the emotional weight felt even heavier as my daughter added her own wedding anniversary to the mix.

I was in New Hampshire for her wedding on June 8th—a whirlwind trip from Shanghai for the weekend. The ceremony was beautiful, filled with love and celebration. And yet, it was one I was never supposed to experience alone. I felt that deeply.

I spent the day in bittersweet tears.

My daughter went out of her way to include her father in the ceremony. She had a memorial table with pictures of him and his girls. One look at the photo of my husband holding our six-month-old daughter—now the bride standing before me in her wedding gown—and the dams broke. Those were my first tears of the day.

“I’ll be there for you, these five words I swear to you.”
—Bon Jovi

A Wedding and a Wound

When she walked down the aisle to the song I’d once picked for my husband and me, I couldn’t watch her. The sobs were immediate, silent, and painful. The father-daughter dance to Butterfly Kisses with her new husband and my granddaughter, her uncle stepping in where her dad should have been—it was beautiful. And heartbreaking. At every turn, I saw his absence.

Her Moment. Our Moment.

But then came our moment. The mother-daughter dance. She had chosen “The Woman You Are” by Jessia. As the lyrics played, I held her close and tried to hold it together as she sang to me. I was so proud of her—of who she’s become. A woman shaped not only by her strength, but also by her softness, her courage, and the love of a father who couldn’t be there in body but who filled the room in spirit.

It was a dance between who we are, who we’ve lost, and who we have become. A quiet honoring of the past, wrapped in the arms of the future.

I watched my daughter start this new chapter of her life, happier than I’d ever seen her. I’d never seen two people more in love. I felt a deep, bittersweet ache for the life my husband and I had once dreamed of. The love we shared, the plans we made—those are the things that have made these milestones hard to navigate on my own.

Moving Forward

When I returned to Shanghai and the safety of my own home, the grief came again in waves. It’s been more than fifteen years since he passed away, and yet it felt like only yesterday.

But the distance helped. From here, I can imagine him walking beside her, arm in arm, to our song. I can picture him holding our granddaughter to Butterfly Kisses, his eyelashes fluttering against hers the way they had every night against our daughters’. I can close my eyes and see him holding our girl on her perfect day, tears streaming down his face.

Because that was him.

He felt the world deeply and tried to hide it behind a gruff exterior. But there were always tells. He’d be completely still, but his foot would shake like an earthquake.

Grief is an unpredictable guest. It arrives when you least expect it, even amid joy. It finds a way to mix itself into the happiest of moments, reminding me that love doesn’t always follow a linear path. The anniversaries of loss, the quiet spaces where memories linger, and the pain of absence all collide with the joy of seeing my daughter marry—a milestone I never imagined facing without him.

But I am here.
And I am moving forward.
Slowly.
Sometimes one step at a time.
But still—
I am moving.

If you’ve walked through grief while celebrating a milestone, I see you. I’d love to hear your story—feel free to share it in the comments.