They say time heals.

I know people mean well when they say it.

They want to offer comfort. They want to believe the ache gets smaller, that grief softens around the edges and one day you wake up and realise you’re healed.

But I don’t think grief works like that.

I think you learn how to carry it.

Today would have been my dad’s birthday. A roundy one too.

And somehow those birthdays hit differently.

It’s been sixteen years since I last spoke to him.

Sixteen years since I heard his voice.

Sixteen years since I got to tell him something funny that happened at work, or ring him after a Mayo match to celebrate or for him to tell me keep the chin up.

Sixteen years.

And not a single day goes by where he doesn’t cross my mind.

Not one.

---

June is always a funny month.

Dad’s birthday falls around Father’s Day, sometimes before, sometimes after, sometimes on it. Either way, it feels like a double whammy.

The cards appear in shops.

The social media tributes begin.

Photos of dads teaching sons to drive, dads holding babies, dads standing proudly at graduations.

And I’m genuinely happy for people who still have theirs.

But quietly, underneath it all, there’s a sadness.

Not the kind that knocks you off your feet anymore.

More like an old friend who sits beside you.

Familiar.

Heavy.

Always there.

---

People often assume grief fades with time.

I don’t think it does.

I think it changes shape.

In the early days, grief is loud. Really loud.

It demands your attention.

It arrives unexpectedly and leaves devastation in its wake.

But later?

Later it becomes part of you.

It sits quietly in the background.

It appears in the middle of an ordinary Tuesday.

In a song on the radio.

In a phrase someone says.

In a smell.

Or standing in a crowd of thousands at a Mayo match.

---

Mayo always seem to play championship football around Dad’s birthday.

I don’t know if it’s cruel timing or perfect timing.

Last year, leaving Hyde Park after losing to Roscommon, the grief hit harder than usual.

Maybe because disappointment feels bigger when the person you always shared it with isn’t beside you.

Maybe because grief has a habit of sneaking into the cracks when you’re already feeling bruised.

I remember leaving that ground with a heaviness I couldn’t quite explain.

Not just because Mayo lost.

But because Dad wasn’t there to talk about it.

To blame the referee.

To say we’d get them next year.

To remind me that football, like life, has a funny way of turning around when you least expect it.

---

This year felt different.

On Saturday 20th June, I sat in McHale Park under the bluest of skies.

The atmosphere was electric.

The nerves were there.

As they always are.

And I looked up.

Not for long.

Just a moment.

And I whispered a silent prayer.

“Dad, if you’re up there, change the game around.

Let the boys dig deep.

Let them beat the Royal County.”

And do you know what?

He heard me.

At least I’d like to think so.

The game changed.

The crowd lifted.

And for a moment, sitting there in the sunshine surrounded by thousands of people, I felt close to him.

That’s the thing about grief.

Love doesn’t disappear.

It changes form.

I believe he hears every plea.

Every joyous occasion.

Every tear.

The good ones and the bad ones.

I believe he is there when life cracks me open and when life fills me with joy.

Not because I need proof.

But because love like his doesn’t simply vanish.

---

My dad was one in a million.

Funny.

Kind.

Stubborn when he needed to be.

The sort of man whose influence stretches long beyond his years.

He shaped me in ways I am still discovering.

And though it’s been sixteen years, I still miss him.

Deeply.

Some days quietly.

Some days fiercely.

I suspect I always will.

Because grief isn’t something to conquer.

It’s not a mountain to climb or a hurdle to overcome.

It’s love.

Love with nowhere to go.

And maybe that’s okay.

Maybe the goal isn’t to heal.

Maybe the goal is simply to carry.

To carry the memories.

To carry the lessons.

To carry the love.

And to keep going.

Even on the double whammy days.

Especially on those days.

Happy birthday, Dad.

You are one in a million.

You’ll never be forgotten.

And you’ll be forever loved.