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There were days when I just missed Rob so damn much that I could barely stand it. It came out of nowhere, triggered by nothing, and I found myself overwhelmed by the presence of his absence.

His silence was deafening, and all I wanted to do was cry.

Sometimes I felt the presence of his absence when I talked with my ex-wife, Caryn, or my younger son, Zach. Sometimes it was when someone asked if I had any kids. Sometimes I’d look up at the sky and almost see Rob hiding behind a cloud. Sometimes it was nothing more than hearing a distant whisper in the middle of the night, and sometimes the sound was piercing, like on his birthday.

Sometimes the presence of Rob’s absence felt worse than the absence of his presence.

I’m sure you’ve had strange days like these too. You may wake up early in the morning when it’s nice and quiet, longing to hear your child’s voice again. You may be driving somewhere, and the vacant shotgun seat suddenly fills you with sorrow. You may hug yourself before you go to sleep at night, wishing you could wrap your arms around your baby one more time. There’s nothing in this world that feels lonelier than the presence of your child’s absence, and it takes time before you can do anything about it.

It’s a crushing blow, and my main advice will come as no surprise because it’s pretty much the same advice I give all bereaved parents—let yourself tumble into the abyss, lean into whatever you’re feeling, and allow those emotions to work their magic.

Feeling the depth of your loss—rolling around in it at the bottom of the bottom until it seeps into your bones and begins to transform you—is yet another way of facing what scares you the most.

That being said, you don’t necessarily need to spend the whole day being haunted by your child’s absence. Whenever I felt trapped in the bottomless pit of Rob’s nonexistence, I took the initial hit and then tried to dig myself out by changing the narrative. I tapped into a happy memory and hoped that it would take hold. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t, but there was nothing to lose by shining a light in the darkness.

My happy memories with Rob were sporadic, which is why I always travel back in time to a Christmas past, weeks before Rob killed himself. Zach had flown in from Tampa, and the three of us had a blast.

We had taken Rob to his first-ever basketball game, and it felt like a weekend from long ago when Caryn was at work and it was just the boys. On Christmas Day, Rob and Zach busted each other’s balls like only brothers can, and we all gleefully stuffed our faces. It was a magnificent day that later turned bittersweet, because it was the last time the three of us were together. Yet I’m eternally grateful that Rob gave us this beautiful parting gift.

Making the choice to turn on the guiding light and climb out of the hole was another great leap forward. I remember having this epiphany—that I can choose how I want to coexist with my grief—about a year after Rob died. The notion that I didn’t have to suffer in order to maintain a loving connection with him, that I could let go of the pain without letting go of Rob, was a revelation.

I was in so much agony for such a long time that I couldn’t see straight. I couldn’t see what was right in front of me because my tears got in the way. Understanding that I had agency in determining how I wanted to move forward with my mourning felt like some kind of miracle. Recognizing that you can choose how to proceed is perhaps the most significant turning point toward beginning the next chapter of your life and becoming an extraordinary parent.

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One more thing about this whole presence/absence thing: Now that Rob’s been gone for more than seven years, I feel only his presence. I carry him with me wherever I go. I keep him close. I talk to him. I laugh with him. I cry with him. Rob is neither present nor absent. Rob is always.

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