My family lost my dad to cancer when I was eleven years old. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve felt his absence in new ways. It amplifies the stress or grief of already difficult moments. It meets every happy life occasion with a touch of sadness. Moving as a teenager, graduations, my wedding, passing the bar, becoming a mom. On repeat in the back of my mind is, I wish Dad were here for this. Losing my dad has impacted every part of me, and being a parent is no exception.

Here are a few ways my motherhood has been impacted by loss:

I have separation anxiety.

I’ve gotten pretty good at dropping my kids off at daycare in our normal routine. I still say goodbye way too many times. And there are days when I get back to my empty car and a tear rolls down my face because I just ache to be close to them again. But aside from our routine, I feel anxiety when I think about leaving. For dates. For work trips. For fun trips. For a few hours. For a weekend. Especially if bedtime is involved. Saying goodbye and goodnight are important to me, and I haven’t been able to shake the separation anxiety, even after three and a half years of parenthood.

We explained death early, and we explain it often.

Thank the good Lord for Google and child psychologists, because this is not an easy topic to cover. We’re all guided by our faith (or non-faith) in this conversation, but honestly, if you have to explain death to a three-year-old, I recommend thinking now about how you’ll answer their questions. I believe it’s important to be open and honest about death but reassuring about the future–a delicate balance to strike, yes. A three-year-old can understand that her grandpa is not here anymore and that she doesn’t get to see him. He doesn’t breathe or eat or laugh on earth. In my opinion, a 3 1/2-year-old can start to legitimately feel their absence and understand that all people die. Her questions have evolved from, “Where is Grandpa Gary?” to statements like, “I bet you miss him, Mom,” and, “When are you going to die, Dad?”

I think about my own mortality.

I am keenly aware of the fact that I won’t be here for my daughters’ whole lives. And I understand the heartache of a child who has lost a parent. So when my older daughter started to understand my words, I made an effort to be purposeful in my “I love yous” and the mementos I’ll leave my children. I tell my daughter I feel lucky to be her mom. I tell her I love “X” about her, and I try to be specific. I want my daughters to remember these words long after I’m gone, so I say them in excess. (When they’re teenagers, I’ll let you know how that’s working out.) When I was a teenager, I found my dad’s journal. Seeing his handwriting and reading his thoughts was comforting and helped me get to know him a bit better. I write in journals for my girls and I tell them about our days; I put my “I love yous” in print, so they’ll always have a reminder of my motherly love.

As much as my Type A heart longs to control every little thing, I cannot prevent my death. I can’t know my God’s plan, but I can ensure my daughters feel my love (and direct in writing that they’re not to marry anyone less terrific than their father) when I’m gone.

I don’t question my dad’s love for or pride in me.

Because now that I’m a parent, I know parental love is the closest thing to unconditional love that is humanly possible.

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If you are parenting after losing a parent, maybe you can relate with the feelings I’ve described. I know I’m fortunate to have a great mom and six loving siblings who did and do provide a steady stream of love and comfort.

How has your loss affected your parenting? How did you explain death to your children? I would love if you would share your experiences with me.

P.S. Allison Gilbert wrote a book on this topic. I didn’t read her initial thoughts until after I had drafted this post, but my thoughts are strangely in line with her findings.