How to Say Goodbye

Style: Personal Narrative

Statement: In this piece, I wanted to capture the pain of repeated separation from my dad and the way unspoken emotions build over years of goodbyes. Through personal reflection and sensory detail, I explored how loss can become routine yet never lose its sting. My goal was to show that goodbyes aren't singular moments but lingering pains that shape who we become. Ultimately, this narrative is about learning that endurance, not perfection, is the only way to survive parting with someone you love.

I imagined goodbyes filled with hugs and kisses, whispered I love yous and I’ll miss yous. Movies romanticize them: a father gently kissing his daughter’s forehead, a son waving bravely as his dad’s car disappears around the corner. I thought if I practiced enough firm hugs and brave smiles, I could master it. 

My goodbye always begins with the ominous suitcase—the red, faded one sitting in the center of the living room. First, the toiletries tumble in, then the clothes follow, carefully folded or messily tossed in—it never really matters. Finally, the dreadful, final zip. 

At the age of seven, I would let myself sob openly, loudly, and unashamedly. I gripped my dad's leather jacket fiercely, burying my face in the familiar scent of sharp alcohol wipes and rubber conveyor belts from the endless airports. He was always leaving for work in China, gone for months at a time. “Be good,” he’d whisper gently, as if goodness could anchor him home. 

I’d cling desperately to him until my feet scraped the pavement, shouting through tears until his car door shut and he vanished around the corner. The engine’s distant growl faded into silence. I wouldn’t see him for five months. 

By freshman year, I’d rewritten the script. My brothers shrugged off goodbyes like Dad was just going to the grocery store—no tears, no drama. I tried to match their indifference. No more clinging, no more visible tears. When Dad left for China, I stood stiffly by the door, arms crossed, face blank. He told me to “Be good,” and all I could mutter was a quiet “Bye.” I didn’t cry—not until I passed by his room just minutes later, finding his half-empty coffee mug still warm. 

Even now, every goodbye tempts me to say everything.

Why can’t you just stay? 

Why do you have to leave? 

Why can’t you just work in America? Don’t you love your family? Don’t you see how this breaks me every time? Don’t you understand I need a father figure at home? 

Don’t you love me enough to stay? 

But I say nothing. He leaves without hesitation, and I silently return to my room like nothing happened. As soon as I shut the door, silence unravels me. Unspoken thoughts spill into quiet sobs. 

Before I know it, he’s a stranger again. We rarely FaceTime or call; our texts stay dry, just instructions to clean the pool, where leaves gather on the surface like dust on a book that no one opens. Half a year slips past without him. 

Now when I say goodbye, I say nothing. My throat tightens painfully; my eyes sting with tears that I fight my best to hold back. “Be good,” he says predictably. So I choke down everything—every thought, every plea, every desperate beg for him to stay. No words escape. Miserably silent, I watch him leave. 

Sometimes you don’t get to say goodbye. Once, Dad disappeared while I sat unknowingly at school. He always picked me up when he was home, first in line and waiting by the curb with his arm resting on the steering wheel. That day, it was Mom in the driver’s seat. The moment I opened the door, I knew something was wrong. 

He had left early, thinking I’d be happier not knowing.

I found myself curled up on his favorite couch, wailing. That goodbye was stolen from me; I felt hurt and betrayed. Afterward, I vowed never to miss another goodbye. I’d perfect it. Master it. Yet I never did. 

Last week, goodbye didn’t start with a suitcase. It began on hole nine, mid-round of my golf tournament. The air was thick with freshly cut grass, the fairway glowing a vibrant, almost blinding green under the midday sun. It felt as if the day itself wanted to hold him there, not ready to let go of how perfect everything was. But then he started walking toward me, getting ready to leave. I had a glimpse of hope that maybe this time, I could do it right. Say the kind of goodbye that looks clean and composed, the kind you give when people are watching. 

He checked his watch, hugged me quickly, and said, “Be good.” It all happened in a split second. My throat tightened before I could say a word, and then he vanished. Snot spilled from my nose. My hands shook as I set up my stance to hit my next shot. My swing thoughts disappeared from “swing low and slow” to desperate questions: Why now? Why here? Why do you have to leave? 

I wiped my face with my sleeve, smearing tears and snot, then swung blindly. The ball hooked left, then everything turned blurry from a fresh set of tears. My sniffles echoed louder than the shot. Saying goodbye during a tournament was a different kind of cruelty. 

That’s when I realized the truth: I don’t know how to say goodbye. Each one shatters my heart. I never say what I want to say. 

There is no right way to say goodbye. You don’t get to rehearse it. You don’t get to wrap it up in pretty words. In fact, you don’t say goodbye. You don’t get to.

Goodbye seeps into you slowly. It’s the snot on your sleeve on hole nine, the choked-back questions that you never say, the way you still open his bedroom door every afternoon, half-expecting to see him take his daily nap, months after he’s gone. 

Goodbye is something that happens to you over and over again. It’s the tightness in your throat and the sting of tears on your sunburnt face. 

Goodbye isn’t an ending. It’s the echo of a suitcase rolling away, the sight of your dad disappearing until you realize it’s not him leaving anymore—it’s you, carrying the weight of all the things you never said. 

The pain doesn’t fade. You just learn to endure it.