Lessons from My Father

Almost one year ago, my father passed away.

Sometimes it feels like it was a lifetime ago. Like I’ve only ever been fatherless, and having a father was a sort of distant dream. And other times, it feels like it happened yesterday. And the sorrow, despair, and angst still catch me off guard and double me over when I least expect it.

But no matter how the grief shows up, loud or quiet, when the emotion settles and I’m left with the stillness of reality, I feel one thing above all: gratitude. I was blessed to have a father as good as mine. He had his flaws, of course. We all do. And I try to remember, especially now, that hindsight can soften the edges. But even while he was here in the physical, I knew. I knew I had something rare. He was kind, funny, generous, and supportive—all the things you hope your dad will be.

What I’ve come to realize in the year since his passing is just how much he was my guiding light. My north star.

I talk to my mom every single day, and have for as long as I can remember. She’s my go-to for the daily rhythm of life. I can tell her that I went to Jamba Juice instead of Starbucks today because they premiered their new summer smoothie, or that I wore a skirt instead of pants because I was bloated and didn’t feel like squeezing into Spanx. I can vent about how my boss is always fifteen minutes late to our meetings, throwing off my schedule for the day. I can ask her how many dependents to claim on my taxes, who to call to make a doctor’s appointment, or whether my daughter’s fever should have gone down by now.

But my daddy was the one I called for the big decisions.

If I needed to talk through how to spend a large sum of money, which job offer to take, how to mend or release a strained friendship, or how to trust my gut when dating after divorce, he was the one I called. He had this way of listening deeply first, asking questions to make sure he understood the full picture, and then sharing a story that somehow made everything make sense. Only then would he say what he would do; never what I should do. “If I were in that situation, I’d probably…” he’d say, always leaving space for us to choose our own way. He knew my brother and sister would weigh his advice but do what they wanted in the end. But he knew I was always going to listen.

And I like to think that’s a big reason I’ve been able to build a life I’m proud of—inside and out.

In his absence, I found myself a little lost.

Remember when I resigned from my job and took a wellness break? Then ended that break by going back to a job I had already left, for good reason? And somewhere in between all that, I started a whole company? I am deeply intentional with my decisions, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss the calm, steady confirmation of running those decisions by my dad.

In one of my therapy sessions, as I cried about how much I still needed his guidance, my therapist told me two things that stuck with me. First, that I can still talk to him. I just have to listen differently now. And second, that he already taught me everything I needed to know. Now it’s on me to trust myself.

That’s where I am now: learning to listen inward, with the faith that his voice still echoes there.

And in that process, I’ve been reflecting on some of the lessons he gave me, many of which I’ve quoted out loud for years, long before he passed. In honor of his birthday—the day we celebrate all his years of wisdom (he would’ve been 78)—I want to share a few of those lessons with you.

Not all of us get it right the first time.

He told me this after I failed statistics in college and had to take it again (something I was mortally embarrassed about), and again after my first marriage ended, when I questioned whether I’d ever get married again, or what that would even look like. It was his gentle way of reminding me that failure doesn’t define you, and the second (or third) try often leads to something better.

You only need 2–3 friends in life.

One will stay with you through everything. The other one or two will be consistent, but not constant. Let everyone else come and go. Don’t force friendships or waste your energy trying to keep what’s meant to drift.

To connect with people, make them feel important.

Say their name when talking to them. Ask thoughtful questions. Listen more than you talk. People, at the end of the day, just want to feel seen. That was his secret to being so well-liked! He made everyone feel like they mattered.

Never be too proud to learn something new.

Whether I was just starting a job or stepping into leadership, he’d always remind me to stay humble and curious. The title might change, but the need to grow never does.

Family first, always.

He wrote his own obituary, and in it, he said his greatest achievement was marrying my mom and raising his children. That wasn’t just something he said. It was how he lived. He was proud of us, showed up for us, supported us, elevated us, and yes, maybe even obsessed over us. And we loved him for it.

There are many more lessons—ones I’m sure I’ll continue discovering as I move through life without him here in body. But these five are the ones I return to most. The ones that keep me grounded when the grief feels big and the future feels uncertain.

I hope they bless you as much as they’ve blessed me.

And to my dearest daddy, thank you. For the lessons, the laughs, the stories, the steadiness, and the love. If I can be even a fraction of the parent, sibling, friend, innovator, and neighbor that you were, I will have lived a life worth living. I love you infinitely. And I look forward to picking your brain about heaven when I see you again.