The Many Layers of St. Patrick’s Day: Heritage, Loss, and the Gifts That Remain

St. Patrick’s Day has always carried a deeper meaning for me. On the surface, it’s a celebration of my Irish roots—my mom is first-generation Irish, making me a proud quarter Irish myself. I’ve always felt drawn to the culture, the music (hello, U2, The Cranberries, and The Corrs!), and the rich history of Ireland. One of my biggest dreams is to take my family of five to Ireland in the next two years—to stand on the land where my ancestors walked, to breathe in the stories, and to soak in every bit of my heritage.

But this day also marks something much heavier.

Twenty-eight years ago, on St. Patrick’s Day, I lost my dad to a brain tumor. I was 20 years old, and in that single moment, my entire world shattered.

I had never experienced anything like it before—something so devastating, so impossible to process. I couldn’t “just get over it” the way I had with other hard things in life. Suddenly, I felt completely untethered—like my entire existence had been thrown into a blender

I found that I couldn’t even talk about it. Because when I did, I’d see the sadness in my friends’ and family’s eyes, and then suddenly, I’d feel the need to comfort them—to make them feel better about my loss. So I swallowed it. I kept moving. I tried to function in a world that hadn’t stopped turning, even though my own life had come to a screeching halt.

That’s the thing about loss—it disconnects your brain and your heart, just like the person you’ve lost. Your brain understands they are gone. That you will never see them open their eyes again, never hear their voice, never get to have another conversation. And yet, your heart? It takes so much longer to catch up.

I remember feeling like I was moving in slow motion while the rest of the world sped past me. Everything was too loud, too bright, too normal. How could life just… continue? Didn’t the universe know my dad was gone?

When someone passes, there is a whirlwind of logistics—the funeral, the memorial, the endless decisions that must be made. And while those rituals are important, they’re often more for everyone else—the friends, the colleagues, the distant relatives who need closure. But for the ones who loved them most, grief doesn’t fit into a neat little timeframe. The real work of healing begins long after the funeral ends.

I was lucky that my mom encouraged me to see a therapist. For the first time, I had someone to talk to—someone who wouldn’t get sad when I shared my pain, someone who wouldn’t try to rush me through it. I learned that grief isn’t something you just “get over.” It’s something you go through. And if you don’t allow yourself to feel it, to sit in it, it will find a way to force itself out—like putting a lid on a boiling pot.

One of the biggest ways I processed my grief was through music. Certain songs became lifelines, pulling emotions out of me that I didn’t even realize I was holding in. I got out in nature as much as I could and that made me feel the connection to the hear and now. I also wrote—a lot. Writing became my therapy, my way of making sense of the loss. And slowly, I began to find small moments of joy again.

Time heals, it really does. But the timeline is different for everyone. And healing doesn’t mean forgetting. It doesn’t mean the loss stops hurting. I still miss my dad daily. On my wedding day, when my children were born, on his birthday—those moments hit like a wave, fresh and raw.

But over time, something beautiful happened. My heart and my brain reconnected, and I started to feel my dad’s presence in a different way. Instead of focusing only on what I lost, I began to cherish what I had—20 years with an incredible father. His laugh, his warmth, his hugs—they are imprinted on my soul, and nothing, not even death, can take that away.

And life has a way of giving us little gifts, reminders that love never really leaves us. My son, Carson Robert, was named after my dad. He has his same big heart, his same gentle spirit, and even his stunning green eyes. That’s no coincidence—that’s love, carrying on.

If You Are Grieving, You Are Not Alone

If you’ve lost someone, if you’re in that slow-motion daze, if you feel untethered—please know that you are not alone. Grief is a journey, and while it may feel unbearable now, you will find your way through.

Let yourself feel. Find safe spaces to talk. Lean into the memories, because they are the bridges that keep our loved ones close. And know that one day, the pain won’t be the only thing you feel—you will also feel the love, the presence, the connection that never truly disappears.

Sending you so much love,

Barbara

I  hope you find this helpful, and please know you don’t have to figure this out alone. If you ever need support, I’m always here to help. The fastest way to reach me is on Instagram @BarbaraStratte, where I share daily tips and guidance.

If you ever need to vent, unload or chat you can always book a Care Chat or Guidance Session

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