The Letter

When I was 12 years old, my dad wrote me a letter. He mailed it to my mom's, which felt more like a house than a home at the time. It was a house that provided a roof over my head, but it lacked the love and laughter my dad's 600-square-foot apartment lent for 48-hour periods once every other week. Those weekends were my saving grace during the painful adolescent navigation of divorced parent dynamics.

Considering I received the letter at a time in my life when communication via text message was becoming the norm, I was initially caught off guard and wondered why he felt the need to put pen to paper. In hindsight, it was the natural-born writer in him. The love of writing we've both shared my entire life. That, and the fact that he wanted to gift me with words that could not be "forgotten or deleted," which he addressed in the first paragraph of the letter.

Six pages laid before me that day. Strung together with sentences that made me smile, sentences that made me weep, and sentences that made me do both simultaneously. To this day, I pull the letter out on hard days and reflect on the words that are somehow so relevant and meaningful 16 years later. It still manages to mean more to me every time I read it.

Growing up, my dad always approached every obstacle with a ferocious positivity that I've relentlessly pursued in adulthood. He taught me that there is nothing I can't overcome as long as I keep laughter and joy at the forefront of everything I do. And I believe at my core that if he hadn't done so, our current obstacle would be much more challenging to navigate.

No one ever prepares you for the fact that, at some point, dynamics can shift from your parent taking care of you to you taking care of them. Our parents watch us grow up during childhood; unfortunately, we watch them grow old during adulthood.

I can't pinpoint the exact moment it happened. But it felt like a punch to the gut when the thought dared to slip through the deep darkness of my brain into the light of day. And it all became far too real when our roles reversed, and the tables turned.

In elementary school, he drove me to soccer practice. Now, I drive him to doctor's appointments.

In middle school, he did my laundry and made it smell "Poppy fresh." Now, I do his laundry and make it smell "Doodle fresh." Nicknames we gave each other at least 2 decades ago.

In high school, he encouraged me to stay positive when things got hard. Now, I encourage him to stay positive because things are hard.

In college, he'd send me money to be able to pay my rent when I was struggling financially. Now, I send him groceries and help with medical bills when he's struggling financially.

The painful part of all of these changes isn't that I'm no longer being taken care of like I once was as a child. It's the overwhelming realization that I will have to exist on this planet without my dad someday. It's the unnerving confrontation with how limited our time on earth really is. It's the notion that this letter may be one of the only things I can cling to when I miss him someday.

That said, I wanted to put some things in writing. Some words and advice to revisit on the hard days that I hope still hold true 16 years from now like the words my dad wrote.

So, here it goes.

If you're presented with the obstacle of taking care of someone who took care of you for 18 years, choose to tackle it with grace and love.

Spend more time making memories with your loved ones than worrying about what life will look like when they're gone. (I am admittedly working on this one.)

Tell the people you love that you love them. And why. And how much. Hell, use an actual pen and paper from time to time.

Life has inevitable pain sprinkled throughout it. There are going to be big painful obstacles to overcome. And there are going to be insignificant bad days that don't deserve our energy. How we handle what's thrown our way is really the only control we have at the end of the day.

No job is worth destroying your mental health over.

The person you wind up with shouldn't give you butterflies. They should make you feel an overwhelming sense of peace.

All of the botox, lip injections, weight loss, nice clothes, and other physical improvements marketed to you won't make you happy if you don't already love who you are as a person.

Book the flight.

The best things in life aren't things. Unless it's a 16-year-old letter from your favorite person on earth.

I'll leave the final advice to my dad:

What a joy it is to be his daughter.