Perfectly Imperfect: Remembering My Father This Father’s Day

My Dad died young - at only 58 - when I was just 35. The loss was sudden, devastating, and came at a time when we happened not to have spoken in several months. I was working in Japan and remember the phone call vividly: he had died in the hospital after a massive heart attack triggered by pneumonia. My sisters and I hadn’t even known he was sick. The grief was crushing, and the questions - so many “whys” - were impossible to answer.

I never had the honor of caregiving for Daddy as he aged, and that remains a deep regret. But I’m grateful for the years we had, and the extraordinary lessons he left behind - lessons that continue to guide me to this day.

He Taught Me to Keep Going

“Don’t be a quitter,” my father told me when I was 14 and wanted to quit my lifeguard certification course. I was discouraged, convinced I couldn’t complete one of the underwater drills. I went to him for permission to drop out, fully expecting support for my decision.

But he surprised me. “You’re not going to be a quitter,” he said - not unkindly, but firmly.

Once quitting was off the table, I was left with only one option: try. And try I did. Night after night, I practiced holding my breath by lying back and submersing my head underwater in the bathtub, slowly training myself to stay underwater longer each time. I went to class early to practice alone in the pool.

And something incredible happened: I passed. I became certified. I got a summer job as a lifeguard. I learned firsthand the power of persistence, of trying, of staying in the ring even when things feel impossible.

He taught me that success isn’t always about talent - it’s about sticking with it. And that lesson has served me in every chapter of my life since.

He Taught Me to Take Risks

My dad believed in living boldly and believing in yourself. He didn’t push my sisters and me into rigid expectations, even though he and my mom had hoped for four boys (they stopped after they had three girls!). But we were never told we couldn’t do something because we were girls. Quite the opposite—he encouraged us to try anything we could imagine.

He was not exactly what you’d call a “feminist” (he couldn’t stand Jane Fonda, for instance!), but when it came to his daughters, he was our biggest champion. He rooted for our dreams. He encouraged our wild ideas - from childhood business schemes to international careers. And when I’ve faced turning points or setbacks as an adult, I’ve often asked myself: What would Daddy say? The answer is usually some variation of: Try it. Be brave. Go for it.

And yes - sometimes taking a risk has meant falling flat. I still remember a church retreat where I attempted to take a rope swing out over a chilly lake. It was glorious until at the peak of the swing my arms gave out and I plunged (fully clothed) into the cold water. Everyone laughed -myself included (eventually). But it was worth it. Even now I can hear his voice, telling me that trying and failing is far better than not trying at all.

He Taught Me to Laugh (Long and LOUD!)

Even when things were difficult - my dad found a way to make us laugh. He had a booming, contagious laugh and a sharp sense of humor that turned even the bleakest moments into shared joy.

That ability to laugh, even through tears, is one of the greatest gifts he gave me. It’s also something I carry with me into my work with caregivers and families today. There is beauty in resilience - and laughter is often its most honest expression.

He taught me to laugh at myself, too. That life’s little humiliations aren’t failures, they’re just part of the story.

He Taught Me What Strength Really Looks Like

By the time I was 12, my father was already dealing with serious back problems - slipped discs and pinched nerves from an old accident. He spent years in and out of surgeries, strapped into traction, and in near-constant pain. We didn’t have the language or awareness back then to talk about mental health, but in hindsight, I’m certain he battled depression along with his physical pain.

Still, he got up every day. He joked. He supported us. He endured.

Those years left an impression on me that’s hard to put into words. I remember the hospitals (and the hospital colors and smells!), the whispers about whether his pain was “in his head.” I remember how it strained my parents’ marriage and ultimately upended our family. And I remember how he still showed up for us - never perfect, but always present.

His grit was immense. He plowed through unimaginable pain, long before pain management or mental health were part of common conversation. And while that pain likely shortened his life, it never broke his spirit. That is strength.

He Taught Me How to Live - and How to Let Go

My father’s legacy is rich - not in money or accolades, but in character. He taught us not to make the same mistake twice. He encouraged us to reach for the stars. He stood firmly in who he was - expressive, unfiltered, and above all, loving.

He wasn’t perfect. But he was perfectly himself—and there’s nothing more powerful than that.

Over the years, I’ve come to see that caregiving is not just about physical acts of service. Sometimes, it’s about honoring someone’s memory. About living out their values. About carrying their stories, their humor, their resilience forward. I didn’t get to care for Daddy in his final years, but I get to care for his legacy now.

And every Father’s Day, I try to do just that.

So thank you, Daddy - for being perfectly imperfect. For teaching me to try, to laugh, to persist. For showing me what love looks like, even when you’re in pain. And for being the very best kind of father: the kind whose lessons keep showing up, long after you’re gone.

Happy Father’s Day!