Father’s Day feels different this year.
This post isn’t just for my dad—it’s for the daughters whose dads aren’t here anymore, especially the ones who comforted me while carrying their own loss.
A year ago, my dad’s life was hanging on by a thread. He wasn’t telling many people how serious it was, so I carried the weight quietly. I felt like I was slowly falling apart inside. I pushed people away. I gave up things that usually brought me peace—music, running, friendships. I didn’t know how to say I was emotionally drowning.
Robert, who I love and who loves to cook with music playing in the background, would be in the kitchen making dinner. But I’d leave the room, put in headphones, and try not to feel anything. That became my coping mechanism—shut it down, shut it out.
When you think you’re going to lose your dad young, it feels like life skipped you. Like everyone else got more, and you got left with less. You feel like something was stolen. Like a piece of you will go missing if they go.
To the girls and women who have already lost their dads—I see you. I don’t know your pain fully, but I’ve felt enough to know it changes everything. Grief doesn’t leave you the same.
The season my dad was sick felt like being tossed in a storm—rain, thunder, waves constantly crashing. I was just trying to stay afloat, bruised and exhausted. The moments of peace were rare.
There was a song I clung to, even though it had nothing to do with my dad. It said, “It only hurts when I breathe.” That line became my reality.
Then one night, I had a dream. In it, the cancer was gone. My dad was healthy. He was older. He had lived.
I woke up sobbing because it wasn’t real. But I ran to get my iPad and wrote everything down, wanting to live in that future for just a little longer.
That journal entry is what I’m sharing today. I didn’t give it to my dad right away. I didn’t want him to feel pressure. If he had to go, I wanted him to feel peace.
But I was lucky. That wasn’t our story.
So to every daughter missing her dad today—I’m thinking of you. Your grief is real. It matters. I may not fully understand it, but I carry it with me when I think of what could’ve been.
The Future I Dreamed, The Miracle I Got
April 27, 2024
I pictured your hands covered in wrinkles. Your hair would be peppered by time with shades of gray. You would trade out your cargo shorts and polos for button-down sweaters and khaki pants. Maturity would have taken hold of you, and gentleness would have come naturally.
You would live in the guest house as a single widowed man, and I would give you a hard time for eating Cocoa Crispies cereal for dinner. Robert would be close to retirement. Matthew would be starting his first post-college job, and Abigail would be off at college but would come home every weekend to see you. I would send Jonah and Kaleb off to high school in the mornings, then spend my days with you.
You would have grown out of all your resistance to rules. A beat-up leather Bible would sit on your coffee table—the one I gave you the day you got saved. Time would have authorized you to freely express your opinions about parenting young adults, making me all the wiser. I would resist interrupting you because, by then, I would know time was growing shorter. I would soak in every piece of advice you offered and thank you for imparting your opinions to me.
We would spend summer vacations at the beach. We would laugh together in the shade under the pop-up gazebo, remembering when you used to take us there. There we would be—me finally taking you to the ocean. I would beg you to wear an old-man flat cap for family pictures. You would hate it, but you would do it anyway.
Then, at night, we would get back to the resort. I would be tired, but you would speak to me about an offer I couldn’t refuse:
“I’m going for my nightly walk. Do you want to join?”
We would walk along the ocean, reminiscing about when my kids would search for crabs. You would tell me you love me, and I would do the same. You would begin to tear up, like always, when you talked about how proud you are of me.
I would utter, “Dad, don’t get emotional.” But deep down, I would be smitten by your love.
As we finished our walk, I would hug you goodnight. My body would communicate to go to bed and shut my eyes, but instead, I would fold my hands and thank God for this time with you.
I would believe miracles exist.
The day I was able to send this to my dad, Fall 2024, was an answered prayer. A broken heart made whole again. A woman able to witness a real-life miracle.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad.
