When Both Parents Die

May is when most people start to plan their summer vacations; May is the month my heart pounds louder than anything I have ever heard. It’s the month I lost my parents 9 years and 3 days apart. It’s the month my father-in-law passed away. In May 2023, my father and my husband’s father died 2 days apart, one day shy of Mom’s 9^th death anniversary. I know, my story sounds like an episode from a horror show.

There’s something peculiar about becoming parentless when you’re already “grown.” People assume it’s easier. People who haven’t lost both their parents … even if they try, they can’t fathom what being an adult orphan means. When both parents die, it’s not just one person we lose; it’s a mirror, a home, and a part of who we are. Losing your parents doesn’t feel any less disorienting just because you’re paying taxes and attending board meetings. A part of us dies with them, and it opens doors to identity crisis.

Wishing to be Parented

After we lost my dad, I have wondered about my place in this world. Is there anyone else (aside from my partner) who will put everything on pause for me? Even my husband has other responsibilities as a son, corporate executive, friend, and human being. Despite his best intentions, he might not always be able to hold unconditional space for me. Honestly, I don’t even expect him to because he’s my husband, not a parent. It’s unfair expectations.

There are moments I ache to be parented—after a long day, during an illness, during my doctorate graduation, when something wonderful happens and I want to call someone who will be proud just because it’s me. But the line is disconnected. And still, life moves forward even though I feel untethered.

My older brother and I represent the remaining members of our family. No one tells you how disorienting it is to become the oldest living link in your lineage. No one tells you how lonely it can be when no one else remembers your deceased parents’ birthdays, anniversaries, or their special touch in people’s lives. The emptiness on Mother’s Day and Father’s Day is something my brother and I experience after losing Mom and Dad.

‘Strange Silence’ after Parents Die

There’s a strange silence that follows the death of both your parents. It’s not the absence of phone calls, birthday cards, Mom’s nagging, Dad’s loud laughter and bad jokes, or someone reminding you to wear a scarf when it’s cold or someone insisting you call all the older relatives the minute you land in India because you were raised well. It’s deeper—a kind of orphanhood that creeps into your bones, even if you’re technically grown.

I have a family, a career, and gray hairs of my own. I am an Ayurvedic Doctor, a trauma-informed yoga teacher, and a certified Grief Coach. As a wellness speaker and author of 14 books, I have spoken on health, wellbeing, and grief across the globe. But no one prepares you for this version of adulthood. Losing both parents stripped me of something primal and foundational—like the earth beneath my feet shifted, and I don’t know where to land. I still function, still host gatherings and guests. I show up to celebrations and attend award functions. And I hug other aunts and uncles. I still smile. But nothing feels quite as solid anymore.

Grief, in this stage, is beyond complicated. People assume you’ve already grown up and you’ve weathered the worst of life’s lessons. Meaning, after their token check-ins a few times, so they can sleep at night, people forget about you and think you would have healed.

No One Above on Family Tree

You are now the keeper of your family stories, the holder of photos, the explainer of traditions, the sole person who remembers how your mother’s belly jiggled when she laughed or how your father lit up every party with his humor and big heart or how your mother used to hum in a nasal thin voice when she cooked or how your father wrote beautiful poems when the world fell asleep. There’s no one left above you on the family tree. That safety net is gone.

You become the one who carries recipes, traditions, and memories. The one who answers questions about family history. Every Diwali, Holi, and other Hindu holidays, I recreate Mom’s recipes. Thanks to Dad’s teachings, at the end of even bad days, I know how to feel grateful for what I have. I laugh at something Dad would’ve said, and for a second, it almost feels like he’s still here. I reach for Mom’s wisdom in quiet moments. Sometimes I even speak to them in my mind.

Inheriting an Absence

Honestly, I am tired of talking to their photos in my home office. I long for a hug and I miss their blessings. The voice that once said “You’ll be okay” is now a whisper in my head. My mom’s hand caressing my forehead, my dad pressing my hands before I would leave for the airport. Now when I land in India, there is no one who checks if I landed on time or tracks my flight or keeps my favorite foods ready. I am another tourist in the land of my ancestors.

I’ve come to understand that being an adult orphan means inheriting absence—and learning to carry it with grace. It’s about finding your way without a compass—and slowly realizing you are becoming the compass for someone else. To become the voice that comforts. The one who remembers. The one who builds.

Being an adult orphan is not just about loss. It’s about legacy. It means loving people who are no longer physically here but continue to shape how you show up in the world. It means rewriting family stories, sometimes with just fragments to go by.

Learn more about Sweta Srivastava Vikram at www.swetavikram.com. Her latest book is The Loss that Binds Us: 108 Tips on Coping With Grief and Loss  (Loving Healing Press). Find her on: Twitter, Instagram, LinkedIn, and Facebook.

Read more about parent-loss on Open to Hope: Impact of Both Parents’ Deaths – Open to Hope