I lost my dad when I was four years old. He was 39 at the time, quietly struggling with depression, alcoholism, and a heart condition which, on top of everything else, eventually gained the upper hand.

I have fuzzy memories of dad. It hurts not to have vivid ones filled with colour to comfort me during the dark, bottomless nights when I wish he were here. I can piece together images of him from what others recall, I can listen to his laughter on videos, I can look at the pictures he drew for me when he was in hospital, but I can’t bring him back.  It is difficult to think that I will never really know my dad, that I won’t have the chance to sit down with him over a cup of tea and just catch up on the last fifteen years. I’d like to give him a big hug and tell him that I love him, something that four-year-old me probably couldn’t articulate so well.

Grief has been a natural part of growing up for me. I think I have always been acutely conscious of something missing from my life. As a child, I couldn’t place exactly what it was, but I knew there was an absence which nothing could really fill. I remember the day I got my offer for Cambridge as bittersweet. I was so thrilled and excited, so utterly baffled that I had somehow managed to secure a place. And yet I found myself missing dad more than anything, wishing I could tell him, make him proud.

"Grief is a deeply personal process. It happens on no one's terms but your own."

Sometimes it seems as though there is a natural process of grieving which every individual follows chronologically, allowing them to achieve a higher state of acceptance at the end. But for me, grief hasn’t slotted so neatly into a given time frame. I can go weeks without thinking of my dad, and then feel almost heavy with an overwhelming sense of loss. I can’t explain it to friends sometimes, because I just don’t know how to. Everything is running smoothly one minute, and the next I can’t control the tears. Sometimes I feel so cross with myself, wondering why I can’t just move on after fifteen years. I tell myself that others have it far worse, which of course isn’t a healthy attitude.

Grief is a deeply personal process. It happens on no one's terms but your own. No one else can tell you how to feel; humans just don’t work like that. We can’t choose the moments when we feel empty and alone, just like we can’t press a magical button to make everything feel fine. Up until really quite recently, I didn’t tend to talk to anybody about my dad apart from my family. I worried that people would just tell me that he died when I was young, and question why I was still upset. Even though I knew this wasn’t necessarily rational, I was scared people would think I was seeking attention . Of course, when it came down to it, they didn’t.

I remember when I just couldn’t bring myself to relax and enjoy that sparkling holiday feeling in Florence last summer. I knew my dad had been there years earlier, and felt a sudden wish to see him, to talk to him, to walk around with him and take in the sights. I pictured him strolling around the streets all those years ago and just longed to spend the evening with him. I felt such a rush of sadness and vulnerability, as though I was grieving for the first time all over again.

I recall sitting head in hands on the steps outside of the apartment on that sweltering Italian night, and just telling my friend how I felt, how I had been feeling for a long time. Instead of telling me I was being ridiculous, she just put her arms around me and told me that these feelings are natural. It is natural to miss someone who you love, it is not something to be ashamed of, to try and hide from. It is all part of what makes us human. It was liberating.

This summer before university, I leafed through all the letters sent by friends and family after my dad died for the first time. I had to divide the reading between a few weeks because there was so much to take in, hundreds of memories of my dad which live on in the minds of those he spent his time with. Many people talked about how funny he was, how clever, how kind, how thoughtful they found him. Others expressed pure amazement at his unwavering support of Bradford City football team. Whilst the letters made me wish my dad could be here more than ever, they also showed me how lucky I am to have a dad I can truly be proud of.

A number of my dad’s friends also wrote about how sorry they were, how they didn’t realise he was sick. My dad had hardly told anyone about his illness. Nobody expected him to die at 39. To most, he was a content and successful doctor, happily married and with four children. However, he was also very depressed. He struggled to cope with things and suffered without even his best friends knowing what was going on. When I think about this, I wish I could make everything better for him. But, of course, life isn’t like that. If only it were. Grief isn’t simple and straightforward. It can make us grow, and certainly appreciate things a little more. It can also make us feel so terribly alone.

This August, I met my dad’s best friend from university for the first time. He told me that I have the same laugh as my dad; the thought filled me with a bubbling sense of happiness. You see, I am still learning things about dad all these years later, and the greatest comfort to me is that he lives on in all those who knew him.