There are moments in life that divide time into two parts: before and after. For me, that moment was my father’s final goodbye.
A few months before he passed, he had been hospitalized. Deep inside, I carried a feeling I couldn’t explain. It wasn’t fear—it was a quiet knowing that our time together was becoming precious. When he was admitted the first time, I couldn’t travel home. Every day, I prayed to the Universe with one simple request:
“Please don’t let him leave before I can see him one last time.”
He recovered enough to come home, though he was in and out of the hospital several times afterward. Then one day, that feeling returned—stronger than ever. I knew I had to go.
When I reached the hospital, I found him lying in bed. Tears were silently rolling down his face. He seemed to be struggling with something beyond words.
I gently placed my hand on his shoulder and whispered,
“Dad… I’m here.”
He opened his eyes.
In that instant, everything changed.
The struggle in his face softened. It felt as though he had been waiting for that moment—for me. Our eyes met, and time stood completely still. No words were needed. That single glance said everything a lifetime couldn’t.
It is a moment permanently etched into my heart.
Soon after, I lost him.
Nothing could have prepared me for the emptiness that followed.
I called his name in the silence.
I searched for him in dreams.
I searched in darkness.
I searched in the heavens.
I searched inside myself.
For a long time, nothing made sense.
The routines of everyday life felt hollow. The things that once mattered no longer seemed important. I felt lost, scattered, as though a part of me had disappeared with him.
But grief has a strange way of becoming a teacher.
For years, I had been drawn to crystals, healing energy, spirituality, and the universal laws that speak of our connection to life and to one another. These were already familiar parts of my world. But after losing my father, I returned to them with a heart that needed comfort.
Words I had read before suddenly held a different meaning. Questions I had explored out of curiosity now came from longing. I wanted to understand how someone could be gone, yet still feel so deeply present in my heart.
Some days, I found comfort in holding a crystal. Other days, in sitting quietly, listening within, or allowing myself to cry without needing to make sense of anything. I began returning to the things that had always helped me feel connected, even when I felt lost.
Perhaps I needed to be reminded of them. Perhaps there were things I could only understand differently now.
The crystals, healing practices, and spiritual teachings I had explored for years took on a more personal meaning. My understanding of energy, my trust in intuition, and my curiosity about the soul and the unseen connections between us all touched my life more deeply.
Slowly, familiar pieces began coming together in ways I hadn’t understood before. Through the grief, I was rediscovering my connection to them—and finding a new direction within a journey that had already begun.
There was no sudden moment when everything became clear. There were small moments of comfort. A memory that made me smile through tears. A quiet feeling of closeness when I least expected it. A little more willingness to trust life again.
I still missed him. I still wished I could hear his voice and tell him about my day. But little by little, I began to feel room for life again. For curiosity. For joy without guilt. For the possibility that I could carry this love and still move forward.
Perhaps that was what I was slowly learning—to keep loving my father while gently caring for the part of me that was still here.
I didn’t have to leave him behind to take another step. I could carry his love into the ordinary moments of my life, into what I was learning, and into the ways I cared for others.
Looking back now, I can see how this part of my journey deepened the meaning CrystalSpar holds for me. So much of what I had explored for years became something I understood through my own need for comfort, connection, and hope.
When someone shares a tender part of their life with me, I remember how much it means to have room for whatever we are carrying. Sometimes, we need someone to listen while we find our own way.
I still miss my father every single day.
Sometimes, I imagine him exactly as I choose to remember him—not as he lay in that hospital bed, but as a soul made of millions of shimmering stars, walking beside me in the quiet moments of life.
And in my heart, I still whisper:
“Wait for me where the stars shine. One day, we’ll meet beyond them.”