There is a specific kind of silence that enters a room when someone monumental leaves it. It’s not just the absence of noise; it’s the presence of an absence.
My father left us on September 25th, 2025.
It's January 2026 now. The start of a new year. The world is busy making resolutions and looking forward, but I find myself still looking back. This isn't just a new year; it's the first calendar year where he won't exist at all.
The Year of "Firsts"
It's been four months, but the "Firsts" are still hitting me like waves.
- The first major release I shipped without being able to tell him.
- The first time I felt lost in my career and couldn't ask for his advice.
- The quiet moments on weekends where the silence is louder than it use to be.
Each one is a jagged reminder that the world keeps spinning, indifferent to the fact that my axis tilted permanently last September.
Debugging Life
As a Software & ML Engineer, I am wired to fix things. If a model fails to converge or a service crashes, there is a reason. There is a logic error, a data quality issue, a race condition. If I stare at it long enough, if I work hard enough, I can solve it.
But you cannot debug grief. You cannot patch a broken heart. You cannot revert to a previous version of reality where everything was fine.
For a long time, I tried to "solve" my grief. I threw myself into work. I built features, I shipped code, I distracted myself with complexity because the simplicity of loss was too painful to face.
But eventually, the compiler of life throws an error you can't ignore.
What He Left Behind
It’s strange what sticks with you. Not the big lectures or the grand moments, but the small things.
The way he laughed at his own jokes. How he commanded his favorite corner of the room. The quiet confidence he moved with.
I realized recently that I see him in myself more than ever. When I persist through a difficult problem, that’s his stubbornness. When I make sure everyone around me is taken care of, that’s his generosity. When I prioritize my integrity over a quick win, that’s his compass.
He isn't here physically, but the source code he wrote in me is still running.
Moving Forward, Not Moving On
People say you need to "move on." I hate that phrase. It implies leaving something behind.
I am not moving on from my father. I am moving forward with him.
I am carrying him into rooms he will never enter. I am showing him the future through my eyes. Every success I have is a continuation of the foundation he built.
His corner is empty, yes. And it painful to look at. But the room is filled with everything he taught me.
To Anyone Else in the Club
If you are also navigating a year of "firsts," I see you.
There is no roadmap for this. There is no documentation. You just take it one day, one hour, one breath at a time.
Be gentle with yourself. It’s okay to not be okay.
And remember: Grief is just love with nowhere to go. So take that love, and pour it into your work, your passions, and the people still around you.
That is the only way to fill the empty space he left behind.