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I've just turned 31.  

My dad died at 47.  

So apparently, that gives me 16 years left.  

I know it's irrational; life doesn't work like that. But grief isn't logical. It doesn't care about statistics. It shows up quietly, especially around birthdays, and whispers, this is  how long you have left.  

Watch: How to deal with loss or grief of loved ones. Post continues below.

Three years ago, in my late 20s, I lost my dad — my best friend, my biggest supporter,  the person who made the world feel safe. He was just 47. It was New Year's Day.  

Yeah. Cheers, Dad. Great timing.  

Everything felt colourless after that. My world stopped, yet everyone else's kept moving  — work, plans, goals — while I was stuck, trying to understand how time could just...  keep going.  

I was so angry when my dad died — at the world for taking him so young, just shy of  three weeks before my 28th birthday.

I was jealous, too, of everyone who still had their dad. How could this be my reality? I still feel jealous, but it's just the painful reality of losing a parent so young.

So, if you're reading this and you still have both of your  parents, know how lucky you are, and hold onto them tight.  

My grief hasn't been linear; it's been everything but. I've felt numb, tired, and fearful. 

Life has been on pause. Sometimes, I start to call my dad and remember he's really  gone.

But I've also found strength and resilience I never imagined, and discovered I can  survive more than I thought possible.  

Normally, I love birthdays — I'm an Aquarian after all. But the older I get, the more I  dread them.

Maybe I thought I'd have it all figured out: hosting a big TV show, engaged,  or thinking about a first baby. Or maybe it's the "grief maths," ticking in my brain,  reminding me how much time I have left.  

But here I am, and it feels… different. Now the grief maths overlaps with all the things  women in their 30s are "supposed" to have sorted: settled, successful, thinking about  kids, and having life under control.  

Gosh, can't seem to catch a break!  

Some days, I catch myself spiralling:  

Should I rush?  

Should I settle?  

Should I have kids sooner, just in case?  

Should I stop chasing long-term goals and start panicking? 

If my grief calculator is right, I may have only 16 years left to do all this. I need to hurry  up.  

It's exhausting. Why can't I just be present? I know it's irrational. But grief doesn't wait  for sadness; it sneaks into birthdays, milestones, and decisions, amplifying all the  pressure that exists. The timelines society whispers about grow louder, sharper,  impossible to ignore.  

Then, just this week, something shifted.  

I met a lovely man in his 60s on the bus. We got talking, and he told me his father-in-law  had just turned 100, though his dad had passed at 99. If I'd met him one year ago, I would have been flooded with questions: Why didn't my dad live longer? Why did I only  get him for such a short time?  

Today, I felt clarity instead. Life is a journey, and sometimes bad things happen. Before  my dad died, I never thought about the time left. Now, it's all I think about — and it's  quietly terrifying.  

And yet, maybe that's okay. Maybe I don't need to have it all figured out. Maybe I don't  need to rush or check every box. Maybe living fully, noticing the moments, and letting  life unfold around me is enough.  

Maybe the real work isn't trying to live my life faster but learning how to live fully,  without letting fear dictate my future. To live in the moment. And to allow myself to be  happy.  

Some days, I still do the maths in my head. I feel the pull of milestones and the quiet  pressure of "should's" and "supposed to's."  

But I'm learning to sit with it. To let myself feel the fear, the sadness, the uncertainty,  and then move forward anyway. Maybe this is what life is truly about?  

Listen: In this episode of But Are You Happy, we explore grief in all its forms, and what healthy versus unhealthy grieving can look like. Post continues below.

I'm learning that maybe ageing isn't something to fear or outrun. It's something my dad  never got to do. I won't see him grow old; he won't walk me down the aisle or meet my children.

Still, I made him a promise, and I intend to keep it. But maybe that's why I'm  scared, but it's also why I'm determined to live fully, even when it's scary, just for him.  

Grief has taught me that life isn't about rushing. It's about noticing the moments, the  small joys, and the people who make it all meaningful. It's about being present, even  when your brain keeps doing the countdown.  

I don't have to have it all figured out. I don't have to tick every box by 31, 35, or any age. I  just have to keep going, day by day, letting life unfold, and making it as full as I can.  

And maybe, that's enough. 

And meeting that man on the bus reminded me of that — that life keeps moving, even  when grief tries to stop you, and that there's still space to find joy, connection, and  meaning, no matter how much time you think you have left.  

After all, grief is "wavy, baby."

Feature Image: Supplied.