Happy Father’s Day

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Well, Dad…

Here we are again—another Father’s Day.

Thirteen of these have passed without you here, and still, this day brings a flood of feelings. My feed is full of photos—friends with their dads, some still earthside, others now keeping you company in heaven. I always find myself sitting in a strange mix of emotions. Sometimes I get short-tempered and don’t even realize why… until I pause. And when I do, it hits me—I just miss you. You should be here.

Today, though, I’m choosing presence. I’m sitting outside on our deck, soaking in the sunshine. Christopher is snoozing on the loveseat, Corb is curled up by his feet, and my fountain is bubbling away. The Gambler is playing—part of the playlist I made for you, simply titled “Dad.” Chris has already given it the nod, especially loving the deep bass of The Cathedrals and those familiar Irish tunes. It’s peaceful. No bugs..believe it or not.. Just a soft breeze, a warm sun, and a full heart.

Steak’s on the menu tonight. All the kids will be here to celebrate Christopher—except Breezy, of course. She broke the calm as I wrote that with a big FaceTime call to wish her Christopher, her dad, a Happy Father’s Day. No surprise there. That girl’s got perfect timing.

And you, Dad… you’re here too. I feel it.

I think you’d be proud of me. I’m doing the work. I’m trying to be healthy—not just on the outside, but on the inside too. It’s hard, but I’m getting there. I’ve had moments that feel like you’re checking in. Like the other day—a blue jay landed in the yard right when I was knee-deep in self-doubt. I sighed and thought, Okay, Dad… message received. A little love nudge, your way.

I often find myself wishing you’d had this chance—to slow down, to care for your own wellness, to know it didn’t have to be so hard. That it was okay to rest. That you didn’t have to carry it all. That your nervous system didn’t have to stay in high alert all the time. But maybe now, part of my healing is for both of us.

Today isn’t just about missing you—it’s about carrying you forward. I see you in the music, in the laughter of the kids, in the quiet strength I’m working to rebuild. I feel you in the wind, in the stillness, in every bit of love I try to lead with.

Thirteen Father’s Days without you, and yet—somehow—you’re always here.

Always.