Grieving Like a Man.

On Dad Grief.

When it comes to grief and loss, there’s an imbalance—a grief support disparity. Mostly by our own doing, or lack of doing. Men, and specifically fathers, are underrepresented. When you lose a child (or anyone, really), women seem to lead the way. Heck, the literal book on the subject was written by a woman in the 1970s, when men dominated the psychiatric field.

They give and get most of the oxygen.

Search for books on losing a child, and you’ll find most are written from a mother’s perspective. That perspective is crucial. Valid. But it’s different. A father’s relationship with his kids is different from their mother’s, as it should be. And relationships between fathers and sons are different than fathers and daughters more-so.

My relationship with Shea was very different than with my daughter—in all the ways that make each relationship great.

Lida loves to imagine, think, and create. Shea loved to smash, wrestle, and roughhouse.

Search for grief support groups, and most are tailored (implicitly or otherwise) to women, or at least by women. All the “heart center” and “self compassion” and “breath work” vibe really never connected for me. Most podcasts, blog posts or grief “practices” seem to have another audience in mind.

And really, of course they do. Men stuff it down. We get back to work. We feign strength until it finds us.We thirst for distraction. For hobbies. For adventure. For relief. But connection and community come less naturally to most men.

In many ways, I’m fortunate. I’ve invested in friendships and male companionship my entire life. I’ve had the same best friends since near birth. I’m close with my father, and I was close with his father. My college friends remain tight. My neighborhood is filled with fellow dads who’ll drop everything at the drop of a hat for a hang. I’ve got buddies who will jump at grabbing a beer, spending three days in the woods, or talking shop.

But I don’t have my boy.

My buddy. My mini-me. He and I were gonna be the best of buddies. We were gonna get into mischief together, support others together, laugh. Watch Tommy Boy or Superbad. Ride bikes down mountains. Exercise too hard. Wrestle. Bug his mom and sister. Build stuff. Drive too fast.

Swim across the lake. Drive in the mud. Go to NASCAR. Backpack. Have the Bills break our hearts. Run real far. Surf. Eat too much. Rock climb. Drink too much. Talk shit. Be sarcastic. Joke. Cry. Love. Be men, be boys, be guys.

We were the best of buddies. Man, I wish we got to see that grow.

Just like, I imagine, any dad who’s lost a boy feels. Strong on the outside, but hollowed out.

So, if by chance you’re a dad who lost a kiddo: I am so fucking sorry.

I don’t have answers, but I get it.

A few things that have helped me so far:

A Heart That Works by Rob Delaney (I recommend listening to the audio book)

Sad Dads Club (specifically the discord group)

Writing about my boy. All the time. In all the ways. 52 Ways to Shea , A eulogy for my boy

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Shea Thomas Callanan, our boy, passed away on October 12th unexpectedly. His epilepsy did not define his life, nor will it define his memory. If you feel inclined, please support Shea’s Play Fund which will be used to make play more accessible wherever it is needed most.