The Unexpected Gift of My Father’s Death

How my father’s passing unveiled a hidden gift that has given me new purpose.

This wasn’t how I planned to end the year and start a new year. In fact, it’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever written, and I’m not entirely sure why I feel compelled to share it. Maybe it’s for those of you who are in a similar situation or searching for clarity in your own life. Over the holidays, something happened that shifted my perspective in ways I didn’t expect and has shifted my new year.

At first, I wasn’t going to write anything. I have no heartfelt tribute or touching memorial to share, and that may sound bitter, but it’s not. The truth is, I feel...strange. I’ve rewritten this passage six times, trying to find the words to explain why I need to share this at all. Perhaps it’s because I’m in my mid-50s, deeply aware of life’s fleeting moments, or maybe it’s something more.

Two months ago, I listened to Whoopi Goldberg’s audiobook Bits and Pieces: My Mother, My Brother, and Me. It started as a warm and beautiful story of family, but halfway through, I began to cry. I realized that if a family member were to pass, I wouldn’t have a story like hers to tell. I wouldn’t have cherished moments or profound lessons to recount. That realization cracked something open inside me.

Since then, I’ve been drawn to others’ stories; tributes and eulogies on Substack, brimming with love and admiration for parents who were pillars of strength and wisdom. I wondered, What would I write? Or, would write anything at all? What the heck would I say? And then, it happened.

December was supposed to be a time for implementing my plan, a chance to get ahead on my weekly posts and client workload. I had laid everything out meticulously: a new publication name; Hey Lady, You Are Fascinating, a tagline; Nourishing Sage and Sass with Grace in Daily Life) a fresh bio, and updated visuals; you might had noticed them on this email or in this post.

I was ahead of schedule and ready to dive into the New Year working on my first post for the new year, when a message popped up on my screen:

"Hi Karen, hope you’re doing well! Just thought I should tell you that Ron passed away yesterday in the hospital in Belleville."

For a brief moment, time stood still. The hum of the heat pump, my husband’s conference call, my instrumental blues music playing in my headphones, it all faded into an eerie silence. My father was gone.

Your first thought might be: A text? Really? Let me explain. I didn’t grow up with my biological father, Ron. Long-distance calls can be expensive, and perhaps my aunt, who sent the message, wasn’t sure how I’d react. Or, maybe she wanted to avoid the possibility of being on the phone if my emotions ran high. I can’t judge her choice. After all, how do you tell someone who was abandoned that the person who left them is gone? I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been for her to send that text.

I responded immediately: “Oh my goodness how sad. I’m so sorry. How did he pass? Thank you for telling me. I appreciate you♥️ I hope you are OK? “

I texted the way my thoughts came—in a whirlwind. My genuine concern was for her well-being; after all, she had just lost her brother. Only a few years ago, she had also lost her father and mother. I didn’t stop to think about my own feelings. Instead, my heart was consumed by the pain others must be experiencing, his children grieving a father, his sisters mourning a brother. I couldn’t imagine the depth of their loss. And yet, I should have. After all, I am a daughter who had just lost a father. But there was...nothing.

I sat with the news of Ron’s passing, searching for any feelings to surface, but there were none. If I’m being honest, there was only one thought. A couple of weeks earlier, Ron had briefly popped into my mind and thoughts of would he ever make amends or perhaps, on his deathbed, have a change of heart? The thought felt morbid and fleeting, vanishing as quickly as it came. It was strange, considering I hadn’t reflected on that part of my life in a long time. And, to clear the air, there had never been a quarrel to prompt this thinking. No, it was worse than that.

For a couple of months, I’d been experiencing a peculiar ache on the left side of my neck. It intensified significantly in the two weeks leading up to his death. At the time, I couldn’t explain it. My mind wandered to my mum’s heart attack a decade ago, how she’d described excruciating pain in her forearms which is more of female symptom of heart attack. I wondered if this neck pain might be something similar. But all my lab work, including in-depth cardiovascular panels, showed everything was perfectly fine.

After his death, I looked up my estranged family on Facebook to see if anyone had posted about his passing. There was nothing. For reasons I can’t fully explain, perhaps seeking to learn something new about him, I found myself scrolling through Ron’s profile. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, and then I saw it: a post he had written around the same time my neck pain began. He described intolerable pain in his own neck and swollen glands. I was stunned. Could this be a connection? Had I somehow been linked to him on this level? Why?

I still couldn’t summon a single tear. There was no remorse, no pain, no sadness. I suspect the years I’ve spent working on myself through somatic therapy, neural emotional work, and hypnosis, had truly set me free. All I could think about were the feelings of his family, the grief they must be experiencing. I felt at peace. I had forgiven him long ago. The childhood trauma had been released, and being in this space felt good, I mean, unapologetically good.

The next day, while working on some lab reports for a client, a quiet voice inside me whispered, “Obituary.” I typed the word along with his name and Belleville into Google, and two results appeared. As I read through, I noticed the familiar phrase: “Always loved and missed by...” followed by a list of names—his wife, children, grandchildren, nieces, and nephews. My name, and my brother’s, were absent. I chuckled softly; it felt fitting. In a way, it was perfect, just as the stepfather who raised me hadn’t mentioned us in his obituary either. Nor an invite to the funeral.

And then, something stirred within me, finally, an emotion I couldn’t quite place at first. One word. Invisible. That was it.

When I receive messages from the universe or my higher self, they often come as a single word or image, stark, vivid, and unmistakable. The only way I can describe it is as something profoundly clear. If it’s a word, I hear and feel it resonate deeply. If it’s an object, I see and hear it with equal clarity. In either case, whether a word or an object, it appears spotlighted and surrounded by black, as if to command my full attention.

The best way I can describe this is like a beautiful diamond on display, illuminated by a focused spotlight to reveal its brilliance, quality, and opulence, casting dark shadows on to a rich contrast of black velvet. All distractions removed, making it impossible to ignore, and I know instinctively that it’s something I need to focus on.

Oddly, as I think about this now, I remember that around two months ago, when I first started experiencing those strange aches in my neck, I received one of these messages. It was the same type of stark clarity, and the words were simple: “You are protected.” Just like that, in the middle of the day while I was working on an article. Looking back, I can’t help but wonder, was this what it meant?

I went back to working, but soon, I felt led again by some unseen force. Red cardinals appeared in my mind’s eye, perched gracefully on a pine tree. Oddly enough, for the past two weeks during my daily walks, I had been noticing cardinals every single day. My friend commented on this as well and, thought nothing of it.

Suddenly, I found myself searching for a local florist. I bypassed the sympathy flower section and clicked on the “other” tab instead. The first arrangement that appeared was an evergreen display adorned with a male and female red cardinal. Instantly, I knew. That was it.

But what to say? I mean, what do you say? My condolences? Sorry for your loss? Neither t feel right. What did I truly want to convey? As I searched for the words, that little voice within me spoke, clear and sure, prompting the following:

"In the quietest moments, when a red cardinal appears, may it remind you to hold onto the good times, let go of the rest, and carry his memory in your hearts with love and understanding."

As I called the florist to place my order, something strange happened. I started to tremble. I tried to take deep breaths, but they gave way to shallow, uneven breathing. My palms grew sweaty, my heart raced, and when the voice on the other end said, “Hello…..” I almost burst into tears. I wanted to confess everything I had ever felt about this man. And I thought, Really? Now? Now you get emotional?

I stammered, “I’m not sure how to say this, but I need to order some flowers for an upcoming funeral...” She cut in, “What’s the name?” I told her, and she replied with a brisk “Okay….” I felt a momentary wave of relief, but then another swell of emotion overtook me. Suddenly, I was transported back to the little girl who had done something wrong. Was that what I was feeling, I was doing something wrong?

Oddly, I was grateful for the cold, rushed, and slightly impatient tone of the woman on the other end. The crackling on the line made it hard for me to hear her, snapping me back to reality. I described the arrangement I wanted, requested white carnations be added, and carefully dictated the message for the card, ensuring it was signed with my maiden name. When I asked her to repeat everything, her impatience somehow gave me the strength to regain control. It wasn’t the first time I’d dealt with people who tried to pierce my emotional boundaries, and I’ve learned how to stay grounded. In that moment, I felt empowered, in control. It was as if I needed some cold stranger to hear my unspoken confession.

Then, out of the blue, almost as if something was working through me again, I asked how many flower arrangements were going to the church. She replied, “Just two,” and mine was one of them. After I hung up, I still felt empowered, but only briefly. Doubt crept in, and I thought, What have I done? That familiar feeling of doing something wrong returned. But then, a quiet voice, this time my own, whispered, You have done nothing wrong.

In that moment, I felt empowered again. You might think, this is toxic positivity! But it’s not. When you’ve done the internal work, you operate from a completely different place; a place of understanding and its easy to release. I still have work to do, There is still more to come.

I started to reflect on everything that had happened to me, how I had been ostracized by the family, how my half-brothers and sisters had nothing to do with me, and how I was banished by a father who didn’t want me at a very young age. Family members even had to tell me, “Your father doesn’t want you around.” For years, I thought I had imagined it, that it was just a painful story I had created in my mind. But it was finally confirmed I hadn’t made it up. My father had told the family to have nothing to do with me. He admitted to others he didn’t feel comfortable around me. I had done nothing wrong other than come from a place of a daughter wanting to know her father.

Although I could dwell on why no one in the family ever reached out, I’ve come to understand it wasn’t about me. It was about whatever they were going through, their own pain, fear, and unresolved emotions, that kept them locked in time, unable to break free.

In the week or so after his passing, I learned that he was not a kind person. He often pushed people aside if they no longer served a purpose or brought value to him,. I can count on one hand the number of attempts he made to connect with me. For a few months, I lived with him, but that short time marked the beginning of being "kicked to the curb." I was just 18 years old, a tender age to face such rejection. In fact, it was that experience that became the final straw, triggering the manifestation of the incurable inflammatory bowel disease known as Crohn’s disease.

Because I have done my inner work, I no longer have Crohn’s disease. I’m proud of that accomplishment, a testament to the peace I’ve found with my past. But now I have a new fork in my path, one word that has now surfaced: Invisible. I held space for it, letting the emotions rise and unfold; I have been invisible my entire life, I realized. My whole life, I’ve felt unseen. No matter how hard I tried to let go of that feeling, it lingered. Misunderstood, ignored, forgotten. It all boiled down to one core truth: Invisible.

Perhaps this is why I felt like I had done something wrong sending the flowers. Deep down, I felt like the dirty secret no one wanted to remember. The one that keeps popping up, unwelcome, disrupting the narrative. But guess what? At least for a brief moment, I won’t be invisible. I will get a flash of recognition when they see the red cardinal perched on a spray of evergreen and white carnations.

And then I had a fleeting thought: perhaps after reading my card, my family would reach out and welcome me with open arms. After all, the dragon was gone, and the kingdom could finally shine again. But deep down, I knew that wouldn’t happen. In my heart, I understood there would be no grand reconciliation. They are all wrapped up in their own personal pain; the pain of a father who treated them much the same way he treated me. Now, their healing journey shall begin, or at least, I hope it will.

I feel absolutely grateful that, at 55 years old, I do not have to endure the pain my estranged family is now going through or the pain they are about to face. I feel on top of the world knowing that I’ve let go of my past demons. I’ve reached a place where I can see my biological father for who he truly was: a tortured soul who never confronted his own dragons. He wrestled with anger and clung to selfish emotions, unable, or unwilling, to see the impact it had on his family.

I also believe that my somatic intuitive training has given me the ability to recognize the immense pain he must have been in. He died of cirrhosis of the liver, yet he never had a drop of alcohol in his life. Instead, his diet, a classic SAD (Standard American Diet) full of sugar told its own story.

I can’t help but wonder what he ate, what comfort foods he turned to as he “ate his emotions.” Our food addictions and choices say so much about the pain we carry, the emotions we bury, and the truths we’re unable to face. And, it is also the key to breaking free of them.

He never let his dragons go, and in the end, they summed up what inevitably took his life. There’s a cosmic double play when it comes to the liver, often referred to as the organ of fear. From what I can gather by tuning into his energy, he lived his life without balance, a lack of good sense and equilibrium. From the age of 18, he carried a secret so catastrophic that it ultimately it drained his life force and took its toll on a cosmic level.

He struggled to confront what he should have faced, not just with me, but with my mother, my brother, and his other family. By avoiding these truths, he allowed his energy to diminish, piece by piece. His light dim over decades.

He spent his life hiding from the truth, shrouding his dirty little secret in blame and deflection. No one knew the full weight of it—not even me, until after his passing—and it’s not something I can share. What’s clear is that he wasn’t willing to face reality, and that refusal blinded him to both his own truth and the realities of those around him.

He lacked the psychological and emotional strength to engage with life fully. He was hapless, helpless, and hopeless, convincing himself he couldn’t handle the overwhelming despair he had buried deep within. In his mind’s eye, for the way he treated everyone in his life, he saw himself as unfit for human connection, plagued by relentless self-condemnation, self-attack, and intense regret for his actions. Yet, he remained powerless in his own eyes to change any of it. All skeletons in the closet must eventually be revealed—whether in this life or the next.

I believe my father spent an incredible amount of time consumed by anger, and perhaps at times, confusion. His anger, I suspect, stemmed from a deep well of shame; shame that he tried to mask by seeking solace in other women. But none of them could sever the deep resentment and shame he carried within himself.

He sought validation from these women, and even from his children, hoping to gain recognition for what he believed he was owed as the breadwinner of the family. But that recognition never came. How could it? How could he expect love and admiration from others when he couldn’t love and admire himself?

The liver is often seen as the storehouse of emotions, fear, depression, anger, hate, self-disgust, greed, jealousy, and possessiveness. These emotions manifest as a need for power or as a way to hide deeper pain. Chronic complaining and an inability to confront or atone for past transgressions take their toll, and for my father, they undoubtedly did.

Cirrhosis of the liver, the disease that took his life, is a chronic condition where healthy liver tissue is gradually replaced by scar tissue. This process makes the liver stiff and less flexible, ultimately leading to its hardening. In many ways, the physical scars mirrored the emotional scars he carried.

As I reflect on his numerous relationships and how they ended, I see a pattern—the ousting of not just me, but also women, his other daughter, and the disdain of her sibling toward him, all compounded by the weight of what he did to my mother and what she carried as a result. It’s fitting, in a tragic sense, that his inability to confront and address these emotional scars caused his feelings to stiffen, hardening him from the inside out. His internal organs became a mirror of the rigidity of his unresolved transgressions and pain.

Looking at his family dynamics as an outsider, I can’t help but wonder how it all came to be. My grandmother passed from diabetes and breast cancer, both diseases that symbolically point to a loss of sweetness in life and an inability to nurture oneself. How did that shape my father’s upbringing?

My grandfather died of a heart attack, living as an urban hermit, a man consumed by what I imagine was a broken heart. My grandmother and grandfather had been divorced for years. What caused their separation, and how did it shape my father as he grew up? Did my grandfather trade the joy in his heart for something else? Or was he, too, someone who kicked people to the curb? If so, how did that pattern influence the man my father became?

You see, I’m not about toxic positivity—it’s just the way I think. I look beyond my own emotions because I’m driven to understand the underlying causes. When I was diagnosed with Crohn’s disease, it was a wake-up call. Though the full realization didn’t come until many years later, it forced me to explore, from a functional perspective, how this happened. Once I healed physically, I had to confront the emotional side—the baggage, the dragons, that had been bursting within me, playing out like a movie with no sound, over and over again.

I found solace in somatic intuitive training, which helped me release that old baggage and finally break free from its hold. Which is why I became a Somatic Intuitive Trainer. Years later, I see the world not through wounded eyes, but through eyes that are open, truthful, and loving, non judgmental. Because my own filters are removed, it creates space for me to see the scars of others. I can sense their pain, and in my practice, if they allow it, I can help them uncover the root of their scars and release them. It’s a powerful process that enables people to step into their true gifts and live from a place of love and joy. Sure the same drama of others is still there, the emotional attachment is not.

Having the full story of me, Karen Langston, I can now see that it was never about me. The pain my father carried was projected onto me, physically, emotionally, and spiritually. Because of this, I spent years believing I was the cause of other people’s pain. Today, I know that’s not true.

We all have our own journeys, and he never took his. Instead, he inflicted his pain on everyone around him, as if trying to rid himself of the internal scars that had made him so stiff and rigid inside.

As I sat with the word Invisible, I realized it isn’t mine to carry or to be labeled by, but rather to learn from. It’s time for me to be seen and to feel good about being seen. In many ways, it feels like the perfect conclusion to last year and the beginning of this one. Perhaps it’s also an affirmation of my new outlook on life; helping myself and others step into their fascination and lead lives of sage wisdom and grace, just as I strive to live mine. The Universal messages have been received and its quite simply, fascinating how everything is coming together.

Although I did not grow up with my father, I find myself neither sad nor angry about it. Instead, I’ve come to see it as part of a larger tapestry—one woven with purpose, even if the threads were painful at times. I’ve explored this deeply, and I always return to the same conclusion: everything unfolded exactly as it was meant to.

This understanding has shaped who I am today. It inspired me to give my daughter the love and support she needed to grow into a conscious and compassionate human being. It has made me more deeply attuned to others, allowing me to sense their pain and strive to help them heal. My upbringing taught me to value integrity, to honor truth, and to hold myself accountable for being the best version of myself.

I am far from perfect, and I know that my path will always include bumps, hills, and even mountains to climb. But I also know that each challenge, no matter how steep, has brought me closer to understanding, compassion, and the kind of love that can only grow through the cracks of hardship.

Hardship is only as hard as I allow it to be. I have learned this through my journey. As I face the inevitable forks in the road or obstacles ahead, I know I won’t have to suffer so deeply. My inner work, the release of old wounds and burdens, has given me the strength to see challenges not as barriers, but as opportunities to grow.

Each fork in the road reminds me to pause, to breathe, and to trust that the right path will always reveal itself, if I remain open to seeing it. I no longer view obstacles as something to fight against, but as signposts guiding me toward deeper alignment with my purpose.

It is through this lens that I embrace the unknown ahead, knowing that whatever lies before me, I have the tools, the resilience, and the clarity to navigate it. And in that navigation, I am reminded that life is not about being perfect, but about being present—about growing, learning, and embracing each moment with courage and grace.

I’ve reached such a fork in the road and must explore this gift of invisibility that has risen. I’m fortunate to have a group of women, trained like myself, who will help me shed this invisibility cloak I have been carrying so I can truly soar. There are things I’ll never be able to say to my father, and that’s okay. I don’t need to. I only need to say them to the trapped little girl within me, to speak my truth so she can let it go and become who she was always meant to be: someone who is seen, heard, and deeply loved. That is the gift I have discovered through my father’s passing.

So, for the next month, I ask for your understanding as I take time to let go of this invisibility cloak. This is so I can return fully present and 100% with you all. Please don’t send me condolences—they aren’t needed. Instead, if you must, I’d love words of encouragement or even a high-five to cheer me on as I move through and beyond this limiting belief. A belief I didn’t even realize I was carrying, but one I can now see clearly, thanks to the gift of my father’s passing. It’s time to release it.

Thank you for your patience and understanding during this time. I will return in February, renewed, stronger, and truly empowered to step fully into being fascinating and to help you step into your own fascinating lives.

In the meantime, I won’t leave you hanging. I’ll load recordings from my radio show so you’ll have something to listen to, learn from, and grow with.

I’ll see you in February. Thank you for giving me this space and time.

~Karen