I was 27 when my dad passed away last year and it remains the most heartbreaking experience of my life. It’s been over a year now, and though the raw pain of loss has subsided, there isn’t a day that goes by where thoughts of him don’t float into my mind.

I miss him immensely.

For years, I watched Parkinson’s disease slowly destory the quality of my dad’s life. It’s a debilitating, incurable condition that gradually deteriorates the nervous system, leading to stiffness, difficulty with movement, and cognitive impairment. While medication can help manage Parkinson’s, it’s a progressive disease. By the end, it had robbed him of his ability to walk and move freely, his once sharp mind and the essence of who he was. He spent the final months lying in a nursing home bed, waiting to die.

And when he did, one of the first things I felt was relief.

Over the coming months, I grieved the immeasurable loss of a parent. I spent many hours crying, then trying to bury the pain, only to have the tears I tried so hard to bury, burst out of me at the most inconvenient of times. But on the periphery of the pain, there was also that sense of relief I had felt initially when he passed away.

The years of watching him suffer had finally ended.

The thing is, for months prior to his passing I had wished for this very thing to happen – that he would leave this world so he could be released from his pain. With every visit, the weight of grief grew heavier. I would sit with him in the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital room, where time passed ever so slowly. I would watch him endure the humiliation of needing help to use the bathroom, or eat, as well as the crushing boredom of days filled with nothing but four walls and a TV.

I kept these thoughts to myself because frankly, I was ashamed. How could you love someone so much, but wish for them to die, even if it meant the end to their suffering? And how, when it happened, could I have felt so much relief?

It wasn’t until a couple of months later, when I started seeing my psychologist to help me cope with Dad’s passing, that I finally opened up about these thoughts. I was always too ashamed to admit them to anyone else. They felt ugly and wrong – how could I possibly tell people I wanted my dad to die and that I was relieved when it happened. I was terrified that people would think I was a terrible person and even worse, I feared that they would be right.

My psychologist wasn’t surprised at all that I felt this way. She explained that society often expects us to only feel sadness when someone dies, but relief can be a very real and valid part of the grieving process, especially for people that have to watch their loved ones suffer or are a carer. My feelings were valid.

Losing my Dad was devastating, but it also brought a sense of peace. I no longer had to watch him suffer, or feel guilty for enjoying life while I knew he was bed bound and miserable.

I am relieved that I no longer have to witness my Dad’s suffering and feel the pain of seeing him so different from the person he once was. I’d catch glimpses of the person I knew of course, but his illnesses had changed him. Both his mind and body were failing, and it was hard to reconcile this frail, struggling person with the fun-loving, active dad I wanted to remember.

It’s been over a year, and I still struggle to talk about the loss of my dad. When the conversation comes up, a familiar lump forms in my throat, and I am still always on the verge of tears as I desperately trying to deflect the conversation to literally anything else.

The thing is — I don’t know if it will ever be “okay.” Sadness doesn’t even begin to describe the complex emotions you feel when a parent dies. I am still processing and grieving the loss of my dad, and the healing has been anything but linear. But one thing that helps me is knowing that his death brought an end to his suffering.

My dad lived a long and full life, with all the ups and downs that come with being beautifully human – this always give me solace in my darkest of moments when I miss him dearly.