- Sejal Burli 

Introduction

Grief doesn’t always scream. Sometimes, it whispers.

And sometimes... it rings through a phone call in the middle of the night.

This isn’t just a story about losing someone.

It’s a story of losing your first love, your first protector, your biggest strength your father.

It’s a story about mental health, about the silence grief brings, and how that silence raised me.

The Midnight Call That Changed Everything

It was nearly 2 AM.

I was at home, and so was my father’s phone silent for days as he was in the hospital,

fighting stage 4 brain cancer. 

My uncle, his younger brother, was by his side as his caregiver.

Suddenly, the phone lit up and rang. I picked it up.

A calm female voice said:

“Is this Mr. Sandeep Burli number? We received a call from Sparsh Hospital about donating his eyes.

Would you like to proceed?”

For a moment, my world froze.

A second later, anger rose like fire.

“Excuse me? Who gave you that information? My dad is alive. We’re not donating anything!”

I hung up without another word.

But something inside me began to collapse.

I dialed her back, this time my voice trembling.

“Where did you get this number? Are you sure it’s him?”

She confirmed everything. His name. His hospital.

And that’s when it hit me.

My father... was gone.

The First Hours of Grief: Numb and Silent

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t scream.

I just sat there blank.

When I called my uncle, he confirmed it.

The silence on the other end said more than words ever could.

Morning came, but it didn’t feel like morning.

The ambulance arrived.

They brought my father home wrapped entirely in a body cover.

He was tall 5'11 but now, packed tightly like a parcel.

The sight was unbearable.

He used to fill rooms with his presence. Now, he looked small.

Like someone had stolen not just his life, but his voice, his warmth, his energy.

I ran upstairs. Locked myself in the bathroom.

But still, not a single tear.

Even my mother and sister frozen in silence mirrored my own.

So, I mirrored theirs.

Only when they began the final rituals,

only when they lifted him and began to take him away,

did the tears finally come.

Mental Health & The Art of Pretending

After that, life didn’t slow down.

And neither did I.

I went out with friends. Laughed. Shared reels.

Pretended like nothing had happened.

I was “strong.”

I stayed cheerful. Made others smile.

Everyone said I was handling it well.

But inside, I was craving his voice. His jokes. His presence.

He used to call me his love and I could still hear him saying it.

After that night, no other loss felt heavy enough.

I had already lost the one person whose absence felt like a hole in the universe.

And yet, guilt whispered in my ears:

“How can you smile? How can you go out? You lost your father.”

But I wasn’t happy.

I was surviving.

Pretending.

Playing the same “fun and chill” girl... while grieving in silence.

He Used to Call Me His Love...

He called me his love. Gently, always.

Not just as a pet name but as a truth. A reassurance that I was safe, cherished, protected.

Now, even in his absence, those words guide me.

He used to call me his love and now, I live like it.

With a kind heart, a strong mind,

and a silence that speaks of him.

Every time life tests me, I think of how he saw me.

Not just as his daughter, but as someone full of strength, grace, and laughter.

I live every day holding onto that image.

The Healing Is Quiet, But It’s Real

Grief did not break me.

It didn’t destroy me.

It made me grow silently, deeply.

It made me calm. Resilient. Aware.

His absence taught me presence.

His silence gave me strength.

His death became my first lesson in mental endurance.

Because of him, I became a woman with unshakable patience, with a soft heart, and a mind that

does not bend easily.

Even now, I’m still becoming.

Still carrying his love into the woman, he always believed I could be.

Mental Health: The Truth Behind the Smile

What this journey taught me is simple, but heavy:

Mental health isn’t always loud.

Sometimes it looks like a smile at a party.

Sometimes it’s a quiet bathroom breakdown.

Sometimes it’s the guilt of being okay.

And often, it’s grief pretending to be strength.

We don’t always need to be okay.

But we do need to allow ourselves to feel, to rest, to break and rebuild.

If you are someone who has lost, loved, or pretended to be fine for too long:

You are not weak.

You are becoming.

In Loving Memory

To my father:

The man whose silence taught me strength.

The man who shaped me, even in absence.

The man who still calls me his love in memory, in reflection, in every step I take.

You may have left this world,

but you never left me.