The Hardest Song I’ve Ever Had to Write
Some songs flow easily. Some songs fight their way out. And some songs, like “The Hug Collector,” have to be written through tears, one line at a time, because the grief is so heavy that the pen keeps shaking.
This is my song for my dad. The one who collected hugs like treasures. The one who wasn’t there to walk me down the aisle. The one whose absence I feel at every milestone, every celebration, every ordinary Tuesday when I just want to call and hear his voice.
He Was the Hug Collector
My dad had this thing about hugs. Not quick, obligatory hugs, but real ones. The kind that made you feel like nothing in the world could hurt you. The kind that said everything words couldn’t. He collected them – from me, from my siblings, from mom, from friends. He gave them freely, abundantly, like he knew someday we’d need to remember exactly how they felt.
“I knew you always loved me, the hug collector / You will always be my protector” – even now, years after he’s gone, I still feel protected by the memory of those hugs. They’re imprinted on my soul, a permanent reminder that I was loved completely, unconditionally, fiercely.
The Wedding He Never Saw
The hardest verse to write was the bridge: “I wanted you to walk me down the aisle / To see me in my dress and see you smile / To dance with me, to hold me one more time / But death came far too soon, you ran out of time.”
Every little girl dreams about her wedding day, and in every version of mine, my dad was there. Walking me down the aisle. Crying happy tears. Dancing with me to some old song while making dad jokes to keep me from crying. Giving my husband that look that says “She’s precious to me, treat her like it.”
But death doesn’t care about our plans. It doesn’t wait for weddings or graduations or grandchildren or any of the moments we assumed we’d share. It just comes, too soon, always too soon.
The Empty Chair
“There’s an empty chair where you should be / At every milestone, every memory” – this line captures what grief really looks like years later. It’s not just the acute pain of loss, though that still hits sometimes like a freight train. It’s the chronic absence. The permanent empty space in every family photo. The silence where his laugh should be. The missing piece in every celebration.
My boys will never know their grandfather’s hugs. They’ll never hear his stories firsthand. They’ll never get to roll their eyes at his jokes while secretly loving them. They know him only through my stories, my tears, my desperate attempts to keep his memory alive.
Living with Half a Heart
“I’m walking through this life with half my heart” – because that’s what it feels like. Not broken, exactly, but incomplete. Like I’m perpetually looking for someone who’s not there. Reaching for a phone that won’t ring with his voice. Saving up stories to tell him that he’ll never hear.
People say grief gets easier with time. I think it just gets different. The sharp edges wear down, but the absence never fills in. You just learn to walk around with that empty space, to function with half your heart, to smile through the missing.
Why This Song Had to Exist
I wrote “The Hug Collector” because I needed somewhere to put all this love that has nowhere to go. All the words I never got to say. All the hugs I never got to give. All the moments he’s missing and will keep missing.
This song is my way of saying:
- Thank you for every hug you collected
- I’m sorry for any I held back
- I miss you every single day
- I see you in my children’s faces
- I hear you in my own laugh
- I carry you with me always
For Everyone Missing Their Person
If you’re reading this with your own empty chair, your own half heart, your own person who left too soon – this song is for you too. For all of us carrying love with nowhere to put it. For everyone who had a hug collector who ran out of time.
Grief is love with nowhere to go. This song is my somewhere.
Dad, you were taken far too soon. But you loved me completely while you were here. You showed me what unconditional love looks like. You taught me that hugs are never just hugs – they’re promises, they’re safety, they’re home.
I miss you, Dad. I miss you so much.
But I’m grateful for every hug you collected. I’m holding onto them all.
