What my Dad taught me after he died
Trigger warning: This post discusses grief and the loss of a parent. It’s a personal reflection on losing my Dad, and what I’ve learned in the process.
Me and my Dad waiting for the Macy’s day parade in New York
I’m great at remembering birthdays, tell me once and I’ll remember forever, but not so much when it comes to other significant dates - anniversaries, the first date with my husband, those tend to slip by me unnoticed. The same goes for loss. I couldn’t tell you the exact dates my grandparents died without doing some serious mental arithmetic. So when my Dad died on the 26th of December, it felt like the last little gift he gave me: a date I would never forget.
I was 37. A grown woman by most people’s standards. Independent. Capable. But still too young to lose a parent. It turns out you’re always too young for that.
I thought I had more time with him. I thought he’d be around to answer the questions I hadn’t thought to ask yet. I wasn’t ready to figure it all out on my own, without his wisdom.
My Dad was a quiet man, but when he spoke, he landed every word. He could make you laugh so hard you’d cry, and he made people feel safe. He wasn’t flashy or loud, and he never asked for recognition. But he gave. Constantly. Genuinely. Quietly. And I didn’t see the full extent of that until he was gone.
After he died, people started sharing their stories - neighbours, old friends, even strangers, each one telling me how my Dad had helped them. How he’d shown up. How he’d listened. How he never once made it about himself.
He lived a life that quietly touched so many others. He didn’t seek a legacy, but he left one anyway.
I was genuinely moved by all these stories. The small, thoughtful things he’d done over the years, just because he could. He chose to serve his community, not for reward, but simply because. And I truly believe the ripple effect of those choices is still moving outward.
That’s incredibly powerful. And the truth is, many of you are already doing the same.
Every time you hold the door open for someone. Help a parent get a pushchair down the stairs. Mow your neighbour’s lawn while you’re doing your own. Send a message to someone who’s been quiet. Or give your time to someone who needs it more.
Those acts, the small ones, they matter. More than we think.
I have the people who shared these stories to thank for what came next. Their kindness, their generosity in letting me see my Dad through their eyes, helped soften the weight of it all. It shifted how I processed my loss. It reminded me that grief doesn’t just show us what’s gone, it can also show us who we want to be.
Because grief has a way of calling you into yourself. It asks, Who do you choose to be now?
And lately, when I’m in a tough spot, I hear a quiet voice in my head:
Be more Dad.
When I’m challenged, I ask: What would Dad do?
He wouldn’t rush to judge. He wouldn’t gossip. He wouldn’t waste his energy worrying about things beyond his control. He’d keep showing up. He’d keep helping. He’d keep being kind.
That’s the legacy I want to live out.
Grief is brutal. There’s no sugar-coating it. But even in grief, we still have choice. We can choose how we carry it. We can choose what we do with the pain.
Losing my Dad gave me one of those moments of truth, a point where you realise life is short, nothing is guaranteed, and you either let that paralyse you or you let it propel you.
This lesson has helped reaffirm my passion for helping people reconnect with their intuition, listen to the inner nudges to start going after what we actually want, because this life is ours, and we get to choose how we show up in it.
So here I am, doing my best. Choosing kindness. Choosing purpose. Choosing to honour my Dad by striving to live the way he did - with calm strength, quiet generosity, and a deep love for the little things.
I was so lucky to be his daughter.
I loved helping my Dad with DIY - he was always so patient with me.