The Oscars are on, and my dad isn’t here. I feel funny watching without him.

On Friday, through fits of tears, I groaned on the phone, saying “I don’t want to participate in something I once loved without him. I’m just going to do something else entirely.” I wiped off my snot, and tried to move into the weekend.

All day, I’ve been wondering how it will feel to watch something I treasured without his presence. I’m not sure if my parents intentionally made Oscar night special, but I have memories of fancy evenings, appetizers, and sneaking out of my room to watch the award for Best Picture be handed out late at night. Watching the Oscars was a family thing, a special event, a day I always looked forward to. I wrote about my passion for the night here.

This year, as I write, the opening monologue plays on. I think my timing in writing is connected to avoidance, to the still uncertain, squeamish feeling in allowing myself to participate in things I love when life has changed. Is it ok to return to things I enjoy? To remember to laugh, to dance at weddings, to smile in the Sunday sunshine? Sometimes grief treats you like a real bitch who deprives you of those things.

I was at a wedding last weekend, and we accidentally took this blurry picture. I kept it, though, because I think at times, the beauty of life can feel a little smudged.

In moving out of intense grief, efforts to dress up and sparkle feel shaky and uncertain. Are we allowed to partake in such joy and celebration? It can be hard to tentatively trust the universe that joy is allowed. I am, at times, the only one keeping myself from those experiences. But if we don’t keep trying to get back to enjoying life, I don’t think we ever will.

So here I am, watching the Oscars, and I might cry a little bit. Might make my in-laws uncomfortable. I might have to choose to honor the beautiful ache when I make the choice to return to the things I love without him.

Time to squint, and start seeing the beauty through the tears.