Life, Loss, and Trying to Come Back After Grief

To be totally transparent, I feel like I’ve been in a fog for months.

The weeks leading up to my dad’s passing felt like an out-of-body experience. I was going through the motions, trying to process everything the doctors were saying… trying to understand how we got here.

What could I have done differently? Why didn’t I do more? My dad just went in for leg surgery — what do you mean he only has weeks to live? You must have the wrong patient.

He'll get better, I know he will.

But as time went on, more and more doctors kept referencing this phrase — “end of life.”

They’d say things like, "It was great to meet you. I wish it were under different circumstances," while giving us that half-smile — you know the one.

The kind people give when they know you’re hurting, but don’t know what to say.

I was so tired of seeing that damn smile.

I know they meant well. I know they were just doing their jobs.

But every time I saw it, it reminded me that they knew something I wasn’t ready to accept:

That this wasn’t going to get better.

That we were losing him.

And I wasn’t ready.

I’m still not ready.

I don’t think I ever will be.

“But He’s Still Talking"

Before he wasn’t able to talk at all, my dad would still have full conversations with me — asking about the kids, the business, even my dogs.

We’d talk like everything was normal. He’d crack his usual dry jokes. He seemed… fine.

And I remember thinking, How can they say this is the end? He’s literally sitting here talking to me like he always has.

In those moments, I convinced myself the doctors were wrong.

They had to be.

I didn’t care what the doctors said. I didn’t pay attention to how thin and fragile he looked…Because in my mind, he was still my dad.

I held onto hope so tightly — maybe too tightly — because the idea of him not being here didn’t make sense.

It still doesn’t.

Hospice. Hope. And Holding On.

All this time — through the hospital visits, the short time he was home visits, and to the hospice facility (a place where people literally go to die — how incredibly sad that even exists) — it was like I knew what was happening…

Yet part of my brain kept saying, "No. Can't Be."

I clung to hope because the truth felt too painful to face.

August 7th

The early morning of August 7th, I got the phone call I knew was coming, yet was hoping somehow wouldn’t come.

Hearing the words, "he’s gone" through my brother's tears as he tried to hold it together to get through the phone call.

I remember driving that 55-minute drive in complete silence — which I NEVER do. I’m the kind of girl who immediately blasts music the second I start the car. It’s just what I do.

But that morning? Nothing. No sound.

I drove in complete silence, on autopilot, like my body was moving through the motions but my mind wasn’t fully there.

And even when I got there… even as I stood there seeing him, I still felt like…Nope, this isn't real...

It was like my heart knew, but my mind refused to catch up.

As I write this 21 days later, it still doesn’t feel real.

Living in a Split Reality

The past few weeks have felt so surreal. I have moments where I’m okay — I’m running a business, being a mom to two toddlers, being a wife…

But then it hits me like a ton of bricks:

He’s really gone.

I’m never going to see my dad again. And every time that reality sinks in, it’s bizarre — like my brain and heart still haven’t agreed that it’s true.

Grief is strange. Losing a parent feels so unfair.

It doesn’t matter how old you are — there’s something about your parents that grounds you. And once you lose that… it shakes everything.

The World Keeps Spinning, and You Just Want It to Stop

It’s such a strange feeling when you lose someone who was close to you.

Your world stops — completely — and yet somehow, the rest of the world just keeps going.

People are grocery shopping, scrolling on social media, trying to make small talk — like nothing happened.

And in that moment, you don’t know what to do.

Do you hide in a corner and cry? Do you scream at the world to just be quiet for one second so you can process the biggest change of your life?

It’s disorienting. It’s unfair. It makes the grief feel even heavier — like you’re living in a completely different reality from everyone else.

You feel so alone, even though everyone around you is doing their best.

Trying to Run a Business Through Grief

In those darkest, hardest moments… you still know what’s expected of you. Especially as a Business Owner.

You feel the weight of everything:

• The videos you should create

• The emails you should answer

• The clients you should follow up with

• The jobs you need to post

• The content you need to create

But none of it feels important.

That’s the part no one talks about when it comes to grief —It doesn’t just take your person. It takes your focus. Your energy. Your fire.

I’m doing my best to come back — to rebuild momentum while honoring the loss that changed everything.

Even 21 days later, it still feels strange to turn on the camera and record a video about Property & Casualty Insurance.

I know I have to.

I know so many of you depend on me and my business.

And I want to show up for you.

It just… takes more out of me right now than I expected.

The One Who Always Asked

Not a lot of people in my family ask about my business.

Not because they don’t care — I know they do — it’s just not something they usually bring up.

But my Dad always did.

It didn’t matter if he was sick, in pain, stuck in a hospital bed or rehab facility… he always asked:

“How’s the business?”

I don’t know if it’s because he believed in what I was building —

Or because he just believed in me as his daughter.

Either way, I took it for granted. And now, it means more to me than I could ever put into words.

I’d give anything to hear him ask me that one more time.

I think a lot of entrepreneurs can relate — it can get pretty lonely sometimes. There’s no playbook, no manager checking in, no one to give you gold stars. It’s just you, showing up every day and doing your best to figure it out.

So having my dad’s support meant everything.

And honestly, it’s something I took for granted. I always assumed he’d be in my corner.

Thank You

If you’ve been waiting on something from me — a response, a video, a follow-up, a piece of content — thank you for your patience more than you know.

P&CP, my business, isn’t just a business. It’s personal.

It’s been built on heart, resilience, and a whole lot of tears and love. This business was built from nothing by my husband & I — and THANK GOD for my husband, Jorge ... for his Grace, his willingness, and his strength to keep pushing through all of this. He has kept things moving when I haven’t had the strength to.

I’m still here. I’m coming back. And I promise to keep showing up — one step at a time.

Thank you for giving me the space to grieve. And for being part of this journey with me.