It’s been two years since I last spoke to my dad. And yet, his voice echoes in my mind every day — in quiet moments between meetings, when I’m cooking dinner for my family, or when I see my daughter doing something he would’ve found deeply amusing or impressive. Grief doesn’t follow a timeline. It doesn’t obey logic. It just shows up, often uninvited, and sits beside you like an old friend who knows too much.
My dad and I shared a bond built on deep conversations, heated debates, shared values, and moments of silent understanding. He was proud — sometimes stubbornly so — and yet had the softest heart for those in need. He believed fiercely in the power of education, in feeding the hungry, and in doing what was right even when no one was watching. I carry those lessons with me every day, especially as a parent, a professional, and a daughter trying to honor his memory.
There’s so much I wish I could tell him. About the decisions I’ve made. The doubts I’ve wrestled with. The things I wish he’d seen — his granddaughter growing bolder and kinder each year, my life taking turns that he would’ve been proud of (and maybe skeptical of, too). But more than anything, I wish I could just hear him say, “You’ll figure it out. You always do.”
Grief, I’ve learned, isn’t about moving on. It’s about carrying forward. It’s about finding new ways to keep their spirit alive — through stories, traditions, and the choices we make in their honor. I see parts of him in myself, in the way I lead, in the way I parent, and in the way I stand up for what I believe.
So today, I light a candle. I cook a meal he would’ve loved. I let myself feel all the things — the gratitude, the longing, the ache, the quiet love that never left. Two years without a conversation, but never a day without connection.
Miss you, daddy. Always.