Phoenix Diaries: The Chapter Where I Heard My Dead Dad Again After 23 Years

My dad showed up in a dream. Parallel parking gone wrong, sirens everywhere. He said, “I’ve got it.”

Phoenix Diaries
Personal stories of transformation, heartbreak, and rebuilding from ground zero.

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My father died when he was 46.
I was 22.

We buried him on my 23rd birthday.
October 5th. Happy fucking birthday to me.

Every year since my birthday has arrived with a strange weight, the kind that doesn't announce itself, but settles in your chest like a fog. A half-grief, half-memory presence. Like a song playing in the next room that you can’t quite hear, but can’t tune out either.

Photo by Jonas Geschke on Unsplash

And in the 23 years since his death, he’s visited me. In dreams.

Never speaking.

Not once.

Not a whisper.
Not a laugh.
Not even a poorly timed dad joke. And trust me, he was the kind of man who’d tell a terrible one, his nickname was Goof, he’d make you laugh so hard you’d piss yourself.

But in my dreams, he's always been... there. Watching. Always silent. A background figure with familiar eyes and no sound.

And for years, that silence felt like a second death.

Because we didn’t get to say goodbye, he died in his sleep.
I only knew him for a decade (a story for another time, I learned who he was when I was 10), and it felt like we were finally getting to really know each other.

If you’ve ever lost someone suddenly, you know that haunting ache, the unfinishedness. The conversations never had. The apologies never spoken. The birthday phone calls that stop coming.

I stopped expecting him to speak.

Until he did.

It was a few weeks ago. I was driving a car in the dream, on a quiet residential street, trees arching overhead like they were eavesdropping. My brother was in the back seat, but younger, around the age he was when my dad died, nine. His voice still soft. Hair that never quite cooperated.

I was trying to parallel park. Which, for the record, is cruel even in a dream. I gently tapped the car in front of me, and that bump caused a soft domino effect. The car ahead rolled, then the next, like a slow-motion fender ballet.

Sirens. People came pouring out of their houses in various stages of dishevelment. Pyjamas, bathrobes, one guy with a garden hose and one sock with no real sense of urgency.

And then I saw him.

My dad.

Running across the street in his button-down shirt and trousers, his curly hair wind-tossed, his face younger, tanned. Alive.

He ran to the driver’s side window and said, clear as anything:

“It’s gonna be okay. I’ve got it. I’ll take care of this.”

That’s it.

Three short sentences. Three!

But in 23 years? That’s a symphony.

I woke up crying. I don’t cry pretty. It’s not a single cinematic tear and a quivering lip. It’s full mascara streaks, pillow-soaked, nose-congested kind of crying. The ugly, relieved, holy kind.

And I knew. He came because this version of me needed him.

The one who’s lost the home, the marriage, the plan. The one holding more questions than answers. Trying to parallel park a whole new life and accidentally bumping every damn thing around her. At least in dreams, no one hands you insurance forms.

And then, a few weeks later, another dream.

I’m in a restaurant. Not one I know, but it feels familiar. The kind of place where the walls are warm and the lighting is soft, and there’s a low hum of laughter around every table.

I turn. And there he is. Sitting with his parents (my grandparents). All three of them looked radiant. My dad is glowing. Tan, relaxed, laughing in full belly bursts that I haven’t heard in years but remember like music. My grandmother raises a glass, and I swear I smell Irish coffee and cherry cheesecake in the air (she made the best cherry cheesecake).

No words this time. But they didn’t need to speak.

They were telling me something without saying a thing:

There’s joy again.
There’s light.
And you’re not alone in this.

It’s taken me over two decades to hear my father again.
Not in voicemail or recordings but in dreams.

And I’m not here to tie this up in some spiritual Instagram quote. I’m not telling you “everything happens for a reason.” That phrase can kindly go walk off a cliff.

What I am saying is:

When everything else in your life is falling apart, sometimes, the people you thought were long gone come running across dream streets to say:

“I’ve got you.”

And you believe them.
Because somehow, you know they mean it.

And even if your birthday still feels like a funeral, even if grief shows up wearing party hats and blowing sad little horns.
You’re still here.

And maybe they’re still there, raising glasses somewhere, saving me a chair.

xo,

Tanya

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Your turn…

Have you ever dreamed of someone you’ve lost? What did they tell you or what did you feel they wanted you to know?

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