Hey friends, and welcome to Unmasking the Heart for Change. I'm your host, Tammy Winstead, and today's episode is deeply personal. As we celebrate Father's Day, I wanna invite you into a space that's tender, vulnerable, and honest. It's a conversation about grief, grief has a way of reshaping us. It doesn't arrive with a timeline or a neat ending. It lingers quietly in the background, sometimes showing up in milestones, in laughter, or even in silence.
Today I want to share my own story in hopes that if you're navigating loss of any kind, you'll find comfort in knowing you're not walking through it alone. Let me start by wishing all the amazing dads out there are Happy Father's Day. I couldn't let this day pass without sharing a piece of my heart and honoring the incredible man who raised me. Today, I invite you to sit with me as I unmask a different kind of grief the kind of daddy's girl carries after losing her father.
It's not more significant than any other grief per se. It's just different. It's the kind that lingers quietly and shows up in unexpected times, every milestone becomes a reminder of what's missing. And after all these years that grief, it still echo with me today.
I was 20 when my dad passed away. I was born to late in life parents who had all but given up on the possibilities of having children. Now, at about the age my dad was when I was born, I reflect on how they did it. At this stage in life, I'm exhausted. The thoughts of starting over with a newborn that feels impossible to me. My respect for them has grown immensely. I don't think I was born with that same toughness.
But that wasn't how my dad saw it. If you ask him, you'd think he was the only person on earth to ever have a child, and he was beyond proud. Everything I did was the best he had ever seen, and he made sure the world knew it. I can still hear him asking, "who are you?" As I sat beside him in his truck. No seatbelt of course, and I'd shout proudly. "I'm Daddy Sugar Booger". That was me. His pride and joy in his eyes. I hung the moon. And let me just be honest and say the thought of disappointing him always hurt more than any punishment ever could.
I remember as a young girl, one summer day when I wreck wrecked the golf cart, I ran it straight into a tree that had stood in our yard my entire life. I remember it plain as day backing the golf cart up, and me and my baby brother getting out to assess the damage. We convinced ourselves while yes, it did look bad. There was a chance that he would not notice. We pulled the golf cart to the front porch, and then we sat and waited nervously for dad to get home from work. I've always been one quick to devise a plan. So as we sat there, I convinced my baby brother, if he would admit that he was pushing the gas while I was steering, then maybe dad wouldn't be so mad. And while, yes, both of us would get in trouble, we wouldn't get in as much trouble. Because we would share the blame.
My brother agreed, and so we sat on the porch and waited our fate. Then the dreaded moment arrived. Dad returned home from work. We greeted him with forced cheerfulness. He smiled back as always walked past us and then paused and turned as the screen door shut and said, " would anyone like to tell me what happened to the golf cart?" He asked calmly. We admitted we had both been involved. " Okay." He said calmly. " Pull it around back. You're not responsible enough to own it, so I'm going to sell it." Our heart sank. We didn't get any formal form of punishment that day the way we were dreading, but what we did receive was worse. We got our favorite toy taken from us. He stood true on that promise and got rid of it a few days later.
Fast forward to my teen years. I got into a minor fender bender one day coming home from work. As I pulled into the driveway, dad was outside smoking. I tried to act casual as I got outta the car, he calmly looked at me and said, "Sis, did you hit another tree today?" I crumbled. I confessed, not just about the car, but also about the golf cart. I told him it had been me back all those years earlier. He laughed and said, "yep, I know, but if your brother was dumb enough to take half the blame, he could suffer the consequences right along with you."
Every time I thought I'd pulled one over on him, I realized I didn't. He simply chose to pick his battles and trusted that the lessons would stick, and he was right.
In my eyes, my dad was greater than Superman. He could fix anything, and he knew something about everything. Even though he dropped outta school in the eighth grade, unable to read or write, he had street smarts and a quiet, practical brilliance. Yep. That was my dad.
What I remember most about him was his constant humor. He was a man of few words, but those words carried weight. He had a gift for making people smile and felt seen. If you know me, you're probably saying, "ah, now I get it. That's where she gets it from." Yes, friends. I am my father's daughter, a daddy's girl, through and through.
I was 19 when we found out he had cancer and I was completely devastated. "You can't die now. I told him, you haven't walked me down the aisle or held your grandkids yet." I remember him looking at me and saying, "oh, sis, I'm not going anywhere. It's just cancer." And I believed him instantly in that moment. All my anxiety was put to rest. He was the strongest man. I knew he was invincible and if he said cancer wasn't gonna take him, then that was that cancer wasn't taking him.
But six months later, the devastation stared me straight in the face as we were signing him up for hospice care and watching him sign that DNR was absolutely soul crushing. I knew it was right for him, but it was everything I didn't want. Selfishly.
I was blessed to be by his side when he passed. Yes, this time as we sat in a circle around him in our living room, I was the one telling the funny stories and sharing memories once again, making everyone laugh as he took his final breath.
I kept it together long enough to thank him for being such an amazing dad and to tell him how much I loved him one last time. I then made my way over to the corner of the room and collapsed into my grief. To this day, the greatest emotional pain I've ever felt took place on June 8th, 2000, and I was only 20 years old.
But even in grief, I witnessed a beautiful story unfold. At his visitation, the line stretched outside the building. People came from all corners of his life. Family, friends, coworkers, church members, but spread throughout the familiar faces that we knew where some faces, we didn't quite recognize. The gas station attendants, he would buy cigarettes from. The Hardee's employees where he stopped on a regular basis to enjoy a cup of coffee and to grab a good old biscuit and gravy. There was even a young man who my dad had loaned money to there to tell us he would pay that money back to us. I remember glancing at my dad in the casket, then back at the man beside me, and gently assuring him. "I don't think my dad's losing any sleep over it. And honestly, I'm pretty sure he's not in need of that money where he is now anyway." Yes, friends. In that moment of feeling the worst pain of my life, I was my father's daughter once again, putting smiles on other faces. But that's who my father was, a man who touched everyone he met.
Despite his humble beginnings and limited education, his impact was undeniable.
Now, as I sit in the grown and flown stage of my life, I'm realizing some hard truths:
- I've lived more years without my dad than with him.
- He wasn't there to walk me down the aisle either time. Oops, sorry about that one, dad.
- He never met my kids.
- He didn't meet the man I'm married to today.
- He didn't see me graduate college though. I promised him I would, and I did 20 years later. But hey, I beat my kids across the stage and to me that's a win.
Maybe the hardest truth of all to face is that my dad doesn't know the woman I've become.
But I'd believe he'd be proud.
He raised a daughter who stands up for what's right, even when it's hard. One who gets knocked down, but always gets back up. A woman who runs toward challenges and figures them out as she goes. One who bears the battle scars, but never lets them steal her joy.
Yes, I am still and always will be my daddy's girl.
The truth is, grief is the cost of deep love. It teaches us things we never asked to learn. And while it's true that grief can bring us to our knees, it can also raise us back up stronger, softer, and more resilient.
Losing my dad at 20 left me with an ache I still carry to this day, but it also left a legacy. I get to live out every single day. His humor, his grit, his ability to light up any room he walked into, I see those traits showing up in myself, especially in the moments I need them most. They also just happen to be the traits I hope to have passed on to my kids as well in honor of my dad, of course.
In my personal journey, I found that grief doesn't really ever go away. I've just learned to grow around it. And maybe it's in unmasking our grief that we discover our strength.
If you've made it this far into the episode, thank you. Thank you for sitting with me in the rawness of this moment and letting me share the heart behind my grief journey. I can't ask you to unmask your story if I'm not willing to take the mask off of mine. And once again, that's what this podcast is all about. Real people doing brave things imperfectly.
So whatever your grief or challenge you're carrying, I hope my story gives you permission to breathe, to heal, and to rise on YOUR timeline in YOUR way.
Today as I release this episode on Father's Day. I wanna let you in on something personal, something sacred. Today, I'll be taking my very first podcast episode and sitting with it at my dad's grave to listen to it once again. It's my way of honoring him., sharing this full circle moment, and reminding myself that even in his absence, he's still a part of every chapter I write.
Grief has a way of shaping us in something deeper, wiser, and more grounded.
As you reflect, I invite you to hold onto these truths:
- Grief isn't linear. Some days you'll laugh through the tears, and other days you'll cry without warning, and both are valid.
- Legacy isn't measured by titles or degrees. By the people we've touched and how deeply we're remembered.
- Sometimes healing looks like sharing the story that still makes your voice crack. That's not weakness, it's love in motion.
If you're at the beginning of your grief journey, know that grief becomes a part of your story, not the whole of it. As you learn to grow around it and through it. What you remember, you honor what you share, you heal. Showing up for your grief doesn't mean you're staying stuck in it. It means you're making space for all that it's taught you.
Thank you so much for sitting with me today. If you or someone you know has a story of change you'd like to share, I'd love to hear from you. You can sign up to be a guest by visiting our Facebook page or clicking the link in the show notes. Remember, your journey could be the inspiration someone else needs right now.
If you've enjoyed today's episode, I'd love for you to subscribe, share, and leave a review so more people can find us. And if this spoke to your heart, send it to someone you love.
Well, friends, until next time, let me encourage you to not let the hard days win. And as my dad would say, "stop taking life so seriously. After all, none of us are gonna make it out alive anyway."
Thanks again for sitting with me as I unmask my grief.
And remember, change begins within and it starts one heart to heart at a time.
See you next time guys. Thank you so much. Bye.