My dad was my favorite person growing up. I was a daddy's girl in the truest sense of the word. He saw me and understood me in a way I haven't found anywhere else.

He built a successful HVAC and plumbing business from the ground up, and he was exceptional at it. That business wasn't just a career. It was an expression of who he was: tenacious, entrepreneurial, fearless, and genuinely brilliant at what he put his hands to. He worked hard, and it showed. Not just in what he built, but in the life he created for our family and the doors he opened for me.

Some of my most foundational memories exist because of him. Long motorcycle rides through the Berkshire hills. Horse shows where he would learn my courses with me and stand front and center at the gate with a brush and water in hand. Cross country meets where he would literally run me into the finish line. CrossFit sessions where he pushed me to find out what I was made of. He gave me experiences that shaped my bones, the kind you carry forever.

He never once tried to make me smaller or easier to digest. He encouraged me to follow my dreams, express myself however I wanted, and become exactly who I was meant to be, not who the world expected. He was my biggest cheerleader in every sense of the word. Smart, charismatic, creative, and funny enough that all of my friends had a crush on him.

He had everything going for him. He had paved a genuinely beautiful road. And he was so much more than how his story ended. He could be difficult, and he carried pain he didn't always know what to do with. But underneath all of it was a man with a big, sensitive heart who loved fiercely and showed up in ways that still live in me.

My dad struggled with depression and addiction for the last eight years of his life. But before that, he spent decades quietly fighting imposter syndrome and body image issues he never had language for. The addiction didn't appear out of nowhere. It was a symptom of something much deeper that he never got the chance to properly untangle. And when the disease took hold, it only pulled him further in.

His story isn't black and white. And his death wasn't either. He wasn't lost to a typical overdose. He was shot by police after a domestic dispute, after he'd started using again. He came home, and when officers told him to stay in his truck, he stepped out. I believe he knew what he was stepping into. That decision was the result of two decades of unresolved pain that never got the care it needed.

That's the part that stays with me. Not the ending, but everything that came before it. The years of silence. The things he carried alone. The help that never came in time.

I come back because my dad's life mattered to me. His sacrifices mattered. And they still do. Showing up every year is how I honor that. It's how I say: you were real, you were loved, and you are not forgotten.

There's something I didn't expect when I started showing up, which is that on those days, I feel him. Genuinely feel him. When you've lost someone, a moment where their presence feels close and real is something sacred. It deserves to be protected and returned to. That's what these days are for me. And I think that's what they can be for anyone who's lost someone they loved.

But you have something my dad ran out of: time. No matter where you are or how long you've been in the dark, there is still time. Time to find the light again. Time to reconnect with the people you love. Time for the conversation, the apology, the therapist, the rehab, the first real breath of honesty. Time to begin untangling what he never could.

You are not too far gone. You are not too late. And you are not alone. Keep walking. The ground is still there beneath your feet.