"Love you big"

The first time I heard OAR’s Miss You All the Time was at my first concert at Red Rocks.

It was nothing short of magical.

Red Rocks isn’t just a venue — it’s a cathedral with a skyline. The kind of place where music doesn’t just play… it moves through you. That night, I cried in the most pure way. Not sad. Not heavy.

Just overwhelmed by how beautiful life can be.

Then life changed.

My DaddyO died.

And that song stopped being magic.

It became a trapdoor.

For a while — over a year — I couldn’t listen to it. Not even a little. The first notes would crack me open so fast I didn’t have time to brace.

So I avoided it.

Not because I was fragile.

Because I was trying to survive my own mornings.

But today it came on… and for a moment, I didn’t cry.

I felt happy that it was beautiful and for the memories.

And then my brain handed me one of those tidy internet quotes like it was a rule:

“You can tell you’re healed from something when you can talk about it without crying.”

That’s when the tears hit.

Not because I was “backsliding.”
Because I don’t want to be healed in a way that makes him feel far away.

By the time I got to work, I was a little destroyed.

Not dramatic. Just… cracked open.

I parked. Took a breath. Did what I always do — pulled myself together enough to walk in anyway.

Grief is rude like that. It doesn’t wait until you’re home in a quiet room. It shows up on a random weekday and reminds you that love doesn’t disappear just because time moves forward.

And my DaddyO loved me in a way that still lives in my bones.

Every single call ended the same way:

“Love you big.”

(Then I'd listen while he joyfully told my mom that he loves me so much before he finally hung up.)

Not casual. Not rushed.

Big.

So yeah — if the love was big, the missing is big too.

That’s not a flaw in me.
That’s proof the relationship mattered.

I’ve lost a lot of people.

Some of them meant the world to me… and they didn’t even know it.

And I’ll never make that mistake again.

Because grief teaches you the truth with no softness around the edges:

You don’t always get another chance to say it better later.

So now I say it.

I love you. I’m proud of you. I’m grateful for you. You matter to me.

Not only when something tragic happens, but in the ordinary, unphotographed moments where life is actually lived.

Because love shouldn’t be a “special occasion” skill.

Loving big is brave.

It’s also risky.

If you love big, you grieve big.
If you love big, a song can take you out on the way to work.

But I don’t want to shrink my heart just to avoid getting hurt.

I’d rather be real than polished.
Softer than numb.

So when people talk about “healing” like the goal is dry eyes and a calm voice… I don’t fully relate.

I don’t want to “get over” my DaddyO.

I want to carry him well.

Here’s what I think healing actually is

Not the absence of tears.

Capacity.

The ability to hold love and loss in the same body, and still build a life you’re proud of.

To remember without collapsing.
To miss them without disappearing.
To let it hurt… and still choose to live.

That’s not weakness.

That’s strength with a pulse.

If you’ve been waiting to say it — this is your nudge.

Send the message. Make the call. Say the thing out loud.

Not a novel. One sentence:

• “You’ve meant more to me than you know.”

• “I’m grateful for you.”

• “Love you big.”

Don’t keep love trapped behind “later.”

Later is not guaranteed.

Love you big, My DaddyO.

This morning cracked me open.

And I’m still grateful.

Because the ache means the love was real — and the magic at Red Rocks wasn’t taken from me. It just matured. It learned what it costs to love big.

So I’m going to live like I mean it.

Love people while I can.
Stop assuming they know.
Make you proud.

And if that costs me a few tears in the car sometimes?

So be it.

Love you big, DaddyO. Always.