Some losses happen all at once.
Others happen one small piece at a time.

Hi friend,

As June arrives, we're surrounded by reminders that Father's Day is approaching. Store displays. Commercials. Social media posts. Family plans.

For many people, Father's Day is a celebration. For others, it's something more complicated.

Maybe your father died years ago and you still reach for the phone before remembering he isn't there. Maybe this is your first Father's Day without him. Maybe your relationship was complicated, and grief feels tangled up with disappointment, regret, anger, or unanswered questions.

Or maybe this June you're grieving a husband, a son, a brother, or a friend who was a father. Or perhaps you're a father carrying a loss of your own.

Grief has a way of turning ordinary calendar dates into emotional landmines. Sometimes we see them coming for weeks. Sometimes they arrive unexpectedly. Either way, they remind us that love leaves fingerprints on our lives.

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The grief we expect — and the grief we don't

Most people understand why Father's Day might hurt after a loss. What surprises many people is how deeply it can affect them years later.

I often tell people that grief isn't something we "get over" or "resolve." Instead, we learn how to carry it with us. That means certain days may still stir emotions long after others think we've moved on — a song, a favorite meal, a fishing trip, a family photograph, or a holiday devoted to fathers.

None of those moments mean you're moving backward. They simply remind you that the relationship mattered. That you still feel. You're still human.

When the relationship was complicated

Not everyone grieves a father they adored. Some grieve the father they never had. Others grieve the relationship they hoped would improve — the words that were never spoken, the opportunities that never came.

These losses deserve recognition too. You don't have to earn your grief by having had a perfect relationship. Sometimes the deepest grief comes from longing for something that never fully existed.

If that describes your experience, please know there is room for those feelings as well. You don't have to choose between love and disappointment. Both can exist together.

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A gentle reminder

As Father's Day approaches, consider lowering the expectations you place on yourself. You don't need to feel cheerful, attend every gathering, or explain your emotions to everyone around you. You don't need to pretend the day doesn't affect you.

You're allowed to miss someone. You're allowed to feel relief. You're allowed to feel sadness. You're allowed to feel gratitude. And sometimes, you're allowed to feel all of those things within the same hour.

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If Father's Day is difficult for you this year, I hope you'll treat yourself with the same compassion you would offer a good friend. Grief isn't a problem to solve — it's an experience to move through, and you don't have to move through it alone.

If what you're carrying feels heavier than you can manage right now, please remember that support is available. You don't have to do this by yourself.

Wishing you gentleness this month,
Chris Rollwitz
Dr. Chris Rollwitz Counseling · Grief & Loss · Savannah, GA
(912) 318-6756 · chrisrollwitz.com

Hi friend,

Welcome to the first issue of this newsletter. I'm glad you're here.

I want to start simply: I created this space because grief is one of the most universal human experiences — and also one of the loneliest. My hope is that each month, something in these words meets you where you are, whether you're deep in loss right now or still carrying something from years ago that never quite resolved.

Before this month ends, I want to mark something. May is National Mental Health Awareness Month — and I think that matters, not as a hashtag, but as a genuine invitation to pause and check in with yourself. How are you, really? Not the version of "fine" we offer when someone asks out of habit. How are you actually doing?

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The loss you named — and the ones you haven't

When someone we love dies, or a marriage ends, or a chapter of life closes, we usually know what we lost. We can name it. I lost my mother. I lost my marriage. I lost the future I thought I had.

Tucked inside every significant loss are smaller losses — ones that don't announce themselves as loudly, but quietly show up in unexpected moments. These are called secondary losses. And they're often the ones that catch us most off guard.

Maybe you lost a person — and with them, you also lost:

• The one who always called on your birthday
• A sense of who you were in that relationship
• Sunday dinners that don't happen anymore
• The version of yourself you were becoming alongside them

These secondary losses don't always have names. They surface as a strange sadness when a song plays, or a holiday feels off, or you reach for the phone to share something — and then remember.

This month, I'd invite you to try something small: name one or two of them. Not to dwell — but to acknowledge. To say, "This is also something I lost, and it's okay that it hurts." There's something quietly powerful about giving a loss a name. It stops being this shapeless ache and becomes something you can see, and hold, and eventually — at your own pace — something you can begin to find meaning beyond.

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I'm a grief and loss counselor based in Savannah, GA, and I'd be honored to walk alongside you in that work. If anything here resonated, feel free to reach out. There's no pressure — just an open door.

Wishing you gentleness this month,
Chris Rollwitz
Dr. Chris Rollwitz Counseling · Grief & Loss · Savannah, GA
(912) 318-6756 · chrisrollwitz.com