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
E2: How Writing "Love Letter" Helped Me Speak To My Grief
How has Dad Always helped you redefine fatherhood after your loss?
In this episode of Dad Always, host Kelly Jean-Philippe shares the story behind “Love Letter,” the theme song for the podcast.
Through personal reflection, Kelly explores how poetry became his first language for emotion, how grief after four miscarriage losses silenced that voice, and how it eventually found its way back. He speaks openly about love, loss, guilt, anger, and the lasting impact of a daughter he never got to raise—but will always carry.
This episode is an intimate reflection on grief, fatherhood, and the enduring bond between dads and their children after baby loss. It’s also an invitation to listen—to our emotions, to our grief, and to the love that remains.
“Love Letter,” the theme song for Dad Always, was created using AI as a creative tool, with original lyrics and direction shaped by the personal experiences and emotional intent of the host.
Content note: This episode includes personal discussion of miscarriage and pregnancy loss.
Welcome back to the Dad Always Podcast. If this is your first time here, I'm really glad you found your way to this space. In this episode, I want to spend some time with the lyrics of the theme song for this podcast and with the story behind it. From a young age, poetry became the way I expressed emotions I didn't yet have language for. My earliest memory of writing poetry goes back to when I was about 10 years old, filling a shabby composition notebook with thoughts I didn't feel safe enough to say out loud. My preteen years were marked by a lack of emotional safety. So opening up to any adult about what I was feeling wasn't something I was willing to do. I once had a family friend tell me that even as a 10 or 11-year-old, I carried myself like a 30-year-old man. I remember thinking at the time, 30? That's old as hell. But what she was really noticing was how natural it became for me to carry things quietly. I didn't trust people with what was happening inside me, but I trusted that notebook. Journaling never quite fit, but poetry, man, poetry did. Through poetry, I discovered that I had more than just a spoken voice. I could speak with my emotions, even before I knew what to call them. Every poem I've written since, no matter how simple or unsophisticated, has been a record of that dialogue. I've tried to say how much I love you. Sadness won't let words through, no matter what I do. Over time, poetic expression remained the most natural way for me to connect with what I was feeling, even in seasons I did not write consistently. And then came the losses. After experiencing the pain, confusion, devastation, and trauma of four miscarriages, I was unable to initiate that dialogue at all. At the time, I didn't realize that grief was silencing my inner voice. With each loss, it became harder for me to orient myself emotionally. I was sad, but I tried to dismiss it because I wasn't the one carrying a baby. I was angry, but I didn't know how to articulate why I was angry at myself or at God. I felt guilty. Guilty for what my wife was going through, and in my mind, for being the one to put her through it. The guilt became even more severe when after our first living child was born, we experienced two more losses while trying to give him a sibling. Now I began to feel guilty as a dad, and I started to question why I was not satisfied with my son. Each loss, the excitement I once felt around pregnancy faded. Eventually, by the time we were expecting our second living child, I had gone emotionally flat. I was waiting and anticipating, but not allowing myself to feel. I had no control over the scene unfolding in front of me. The next loss almost delivered the final emotional knockout. From the moment my wife and I first talked about starting a family, I dreamed of one day being a girl dad. And when we became pregnant again after that traumatic loss, something in me cautiously reignited. I still remember the text message my wife sent me from the ultrasound room. A 12-second video of what looked like a tiny fish-shaped blob on a monitor screen with something pulsating in the middle. And in that moment, something sparked. That fish-shaped blob was a part of me. It was my baby. Looking back, I resented myself for that. How could I allow myself to hope so freely again? How could I forget how fragile this all was? But in that moment, and for that moment, I was in love. When we were told that Nemo no longer had a heartbeat at the follow-up ultrasound appointment, I dropped my head on my wife's shoulder and wept. Weeks later, when I learned that Nemo would have been my daughter, the ache deepened even further. To this day, I still carry the grief of not becoming a girl dad in the way I once imagined. I still feel it when I see fathers with their daughters. My heart still wanders through the what-ifs, the moments that for me never came to be. After the birth of our second living child, my wife and I made the decision to not pursue having more children. Beyond the physical toll on her, I couldn't continue paying such a heavy emotional price. And for a while, I felt like that chapter was finally closed. And I could leave all that loss behind. So I thought. Nothing unusual had happened that day. But I knew that something needed to be released. Seemingly out of nowhere, I was suddenly overtaken by a profound sense of sadness, anguish, and regret. I couldn't access the override to stop my tears from involuntarily flowing. An energy I cannot describe coursed through my body and forced me to surrender any control I thought I had. And I did. I sat on my bed, feeling defeated. Having lost the fight, I was never going to win. Grief didn't wait until I was ready. It had its own agenda. And that night marked a turning point. I realized my emotions had never stopped speaking. I had just stopped talking back. Especially to the ones my losses had introduced me to. And not engaging in that dialogue, I couldn't hear Nemo's voice, which lived within them. When that shifted, Nemo's loss became the symbol that held all of them. That night wasn't just about grieving Nemo, it was about acknowledging all my children. The immense joy my boys bring me every day, and the enduring grief of the four I never got to raise. The original title of this song was going to be Dear Nemo. But I chose to call it Love Letter instead. Because this isn't just about one child. Even the ones I never got to name. So if you're listening somewhere safe, I invite you to listen in whatever way feels right, whether that's with your eyes closed or simply letting the words pass through you. So rather than explain the lyrics any further, this is Love Letter. No matter what I do. My strength is quickly thinning. I never got to say hello. Don't ever want to say goodbye. I'll take you everywhere. Your memory will never die. All the love for you I've had. In life beyond I'm still your dad. Your love will wash away my pain. Your precious life was not in vain. I promise you the world will know I'll always love you. Though you will never grow. You don't need to make meaning of it or explain it or be okay. And if you notice yourself feeling very little at all, know that that's okay too. For me, writing this song was a way of talking with my emotions again. And while this song is personal, the feelings behind it aren't unique. Grief has a way of finding us when it's ready to be heard. I want you to remember this. Your grief is real. Your love is real. And your connection to your child did not end when their life did. As you transition to the rest of your day, I want to acknowledge that today's episode may have stirred something. So take a moment for yourself before moving on. In the next episode, we'll begin to hear from other dads who are walking this path also. Again, thank you for being here, and thank you for listening. I never got to say hello. Don't ever want to say goodbye. All the love for you I've had. In life beyond I'm still your dad. Your precious life was in vain. I promise you the world will know. I'll always love you. Though you will never grow. Though you will never grow.
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