Dad Always
Dad Always is a baby loss podcast created for fathers grieving miscarriage, stillbirth, termination for medical reasons, and infant loss.
Hosted by Kelly Jean-Philippe, the podcast centers the often-overlooked experiences of bereaved fathers—men who grieve deeply, even when that grief is quiet or unseen. Through honest conversations, personal stories, and reflective episodes, Dad Always explores grief, fatherhood, and the enduring bond between dads and their children.
Listeners will hear from dads and parents who have experienced baby loss, as well as from professionals and advocates who support families after loss. Some episodes include artistically crafted reflections that hold what words alone cannot.
Dad Always is a space where dads don’t need to explain or justify their grief—and where meaning and pain are allowed to coexist.
Dad Always
Dear Brother
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How has Dad Always helped you redefine fatherhood after your loss?
Some moments break language and redraw our lives in an instant. "Dear Brother" is a raw, compassionate letter to men grieving the death of their child—a message that refuses easy answers and hollow comfort, and instead offers steady presence, honest words, and space to breathe. It highlights the questions that echo after loss—Why did this happen? Could anything have changed it?—and why resisting quick explanations can be an act of deep respect for love and grief alike.
The letter examines how unhelpful platitudes can wound, even when well meant, and what truly supportive language sounds like. It explores practical ways to hold space:
- Naming the reality without fixing it
- Checking in without pressure, and
- Showing up with specific, tangible help
The letter leans on the Kintsugi metaphor—the art of repairing broken pottery with gold—not to gloss over pain, but to honor how identity can be reshaped by absence, and how fractures can become part of a life that still holds beauty, purpose, and meaning.
Most importantly, "Dear Brother" gives grieving dads permission to linger in the dark. Grief has no timetable; sometimes the kindest act is to sit silently beside someone who cannot yet face the day. The letter promises presence even when words fail, and imagines a future in which memory softens from flame to light—the child’s light—guiding, not erasing, what came before.
If you or someone you love is navigating profound loss, this letter offers language, empathy, and practices that keep dignity at the center. If it resonates, share it with a friend who needs gentleness today, subscribe for more thoughtful episodes, and leave a review to help others find this space.
Dear brother, I can't begin to describe how deeply my heart breaks for you and your family right now. I don't want to imagine how devastated, disoriented, or enraged you are in the wake of losing your little one. It's unfathomable. I find myself wishing that none of this were real, that you weren't forced to walk through this moment. I can't get myself to say I'm sorry for your loss. Because it feels painfully hollow and lacking, and it simply doesn't reflect just how heavy my heart is with grief. I'm sure you've already heard some really unhelpful things from people who've not had to experience what is now your everyday. Even if they're just trying to empathize, don't listen to them. Only those who have been where you are could hold your fragments so you can fall apart. I won't try padding the void in your heart with nonsense like God gives his toughest battles to his strongest soldiers, or your baby's in a better place. You know the best place for your baby to be is in your arms. I know you never asked or chose to become a soldier in this way, let alone consent to whatever battle impeded you from experiencing life with your baby, a life you are so diligently anticipating and preparing for. Why did this happen? Why did this happen to your family? Why did this happen to your baby?
SPEAKER_01:Why did this happen to you? The truth is, I can't give you an answer to satisfy these questions.
SPEAKER_00:No one can. So I won't tell you it isn't your fault, or that nothing you did or didn't do could have changed the outcome.
SPEAKER_01:You know that already. How can you possibly make sense of this? How can anyone? But what if that's the point?
SPEAKER_00:What if not being able to reduce losing your child to a simple reason is the truest measure of your loss? What if not being able to make sense of it to yourself or anyone is the truest witness to how deep and incomprehensible the wound is? I don't think the pain of losing a child is meant to make sense. The pain of losing a child forces an intense reckoning, a reckoning with nuclear power to detonate everything you thought you knew about life and yourself. And it's intense, frightening, and it can't be compared to anything else. Yet I believe in that reckoning, who you are and who you're becoming starts to reshape like Kintsugi pottery. Look it up. You'll appreciate the metaphor. So I won't urge you to leave the darkness you're sheltering in if you're not ready. Sometimes sadness and grief are the right company to have for a while. Just remember, I'm here with you, even if you can't see me in the dark. If you reach out, you'll find my hand poised to rest on your shoulder for as long as you need. And even if you pull away, I'll stay right here by your side. Until you're ready to step into the light again.
SPEAKER_01:And when you do, that light, that light will be your baby. With so much love to you and your family. Sincerely, your brother, Kelly.
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