When the One Who Taught You to Be a Father Is Gone

It’s been just over five years since my dad passed away suddenly.

I still remember the night I got the call. How the world just … stopped. Earlier that day I was talking to him on the drive to work. And then I was numb.

A massive part of who I was and the man I had become — gone. And with no time to fully grieve, I found myself in motion. I had to fly to Texas to help my mom. Took over some of his responsibilities to keep his business running (with the selfless help of my sister and brother-in-law) and trying to navigate the unimaginable loss my mom had just endured.

My pain was put on hold. But grief doesn’t wait forever. It waits until you’re driving in silence and a song he used to sing comes on. Or until you catch yourself using one of his old sayings with your own kids. Then it hits like a wave.

And Father’s Day? It’s complicated now. I’m a dad to three incredible kids, but it’s still a day that hurts. Because the man who taught me how to be a father isn’t here anymore.

He Showed Up. Always.

My dad didn’t grow up with a roadmap for parenting. He and my mom had my sister and me when they were young. I often tell people we kind of all grew up together. But we never saw uncertainty in him. We saw love. Through his big hugs, his goofiness, his unwavering support. He was present. He showed up.

Now let me make it clear that as a young father, he wasn't perfect. He showed up because my incredible mother told him early on that if they were building a family, it meant being there for every part of it.

And because of that pact with mom, he was. Every karate tournament. Every football game and halftime performance. Every parent weekend at college. Even if he didn’t totally understand what we were into, he was right there in it. If we loved something, he found joy in it too.

He got a CDL just so he could drive the bus from Montgomery, Alabama to Atlanta, Georgia for my karate tournaments. He learned choreography so he could participate in my sister's dance team showcases. When I played football (and sat the bench most games), he never missed being in the stands. He watched, cheered, and reminded me I mattered.

Wrestling, Wrenches, and Real Conversations

Some of my best memories are simple. Wrestling in the living room. “Performances” with my sister singing old country songs while strumming non-existent guitars. We joke, but we were the original TikTok with our video cameras and VHS home movies. Endless laughter. He had a big, loud personality, and he wasn’t afraid to be silly with us. That’s a gift I’ve tried to pass on to my own kids.

When I was 13, we bought a 1969 Camaro. This came after endless searching through AutoTraders to find the right one. That car became our project—and our place to connect. Every night, every weekend, we were out in the garage. Talking about life. Sharing stories. Sometimes in silence, just being in the same space. It was there that I realized the power of being with your child—not just near them.

He Wore His Heart on His Sleeve

My dad was far from perfect, but he was real. He was stern when he needed to be, but never mean. If we messed up, we learned. He cried in front of us when he was hurting. He apologized when he was wrong. He told us he loved us constantly—there was no guessing or wondering.

Even when he was stationed overseas in South Korea with the Air Force for a year when we were younger or when I moved to Arizona for my first job, he made sure we felt that love. No distance could ever break that.

And as I got older, I knew I could always call him. No matter the problem—car trouble, a hard day, a decision I couldn’t make—he’d simply ask “Where and when?” He showed up. Every time.

Legacy in the Living

Now, as a dad myself, I see just how much he shaped me. I’ve become “prop dad” for my daughter’s dance just to be close to her when she's going to pour her heart out on stage. I've become a roadie for my oldest son, whether that's being guardian for a few shows at the Kennedy Center or carrying his guitar to an open mic night. I’m learning to adapt to their ever-changing passions—just like he did with me.

But more than that, I try to love out loud the way he did. To show up. To be silly. To apologize—although I'm not great at it yet. To tell my kids I love them every single day, without reason or condition.

My youngest son only had a few months with him, but we keep him present. We watch old videos and look at photos. We tell stories. We make sure he knows the kind of granddad he had.

We’ve also kept some traditions alive. Like trying to manage crazy schedules over the holidays just to get my sister's family, mine and mom together for our annual family photo in front of the Christmas tree. And I call mom most days just to tell her about my day—because dad used to end every night doing the same.

I Still Need Him

My oldest son’s a teenager now. And there are moments where I desperately wish I could call my dad and ask, How did you handle this? I need his advice more than ever. There are things I'm not prepared for. Things I don't know how to navigate properly. And just having him to lean on would be comforting.

As a man and a father, I know he was proud of me—he told me so. But as his son and being that little boy who heard it all the time, I still wish I could hear it again. I wish I could call him today. Not to say anything profound. Just to hear him say, “I love you, son.”

If this day is heavy for you, you're not alone.
Whether you’re missing your father, grieving the one you never had, or trying to become the dad yours couldn’t be—your feelings are valid. This day, like fatherhood itself, is complicated. But it’s also sacred.

And if you had a dad like mine? Hold that close. Carry it forward. And don’t be afraid to cry, to laugh, to wrestle on the living room floor, or to say “I love you” just because.

That’s the legacy he left me. And I plan to try my best to pass it on.

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