Hi friends,
Today is my dad's birthday. He would have been 80. Since losing him in a moment last October to a stroke, he's become a quiet part of how I move through my days: the way I think about time, about people, about what actually matters. With Father's Day just around the corner, I wanted to share this again.
It all happened so fast. It still doesn’t feel real, and I wonder if it ever will. I rushed out to be by his side, along with my mom and brother. I later spent the majority of October and November in a daze of tears and laughter on their ranch in Arizona with Dustin and the kids, surrounded by the hills he loved so much.
When I spoke with my kids later that evening, my oldest mentioned one of her first thoughts—after worrying about my mom and me—was of the woman who runs the Thai restaurant in town who adored my dad. He’d introduced her to my daughter the last time they were here visiting this summer. That was my dad—unforgettable, warm, the kind of man who made friends everywhere he went.
This photo of him was taken back in May 2024, the last time I saw him. He was sitting on a bale of hay outside the barn, introducing me to a friend who’d come to help with their cow, and watching my kids play. I remember thinking how happy he looked. I had no idea it would be the last picture I’d ever take of him.
I’ve spent the past eight months replaying so many moments—his laugh, his gentle teasing, the way he made people feel seen. And in all of it, I keep coming back to the lessons he left me with. Not the kind he said out loud (though he was full of those, too), but the ones he lived every day.
He taught me that love is the most important thing in this world—worth defending, worth cherishing, and worth showing, even when it feels uncomfortable.
He showed me that being helpful matters, even when it’s quiet or unseen. He didn’t need to be in charge to make a difference. He just showed up, fixed what needed fixing, and made sure everyone had what they needed.
He reminded me constantly that health is precious. He fought for his—through diabetes, heart issues, and everything else—because he wanted more time with the people he loved.
He believed food is joy. He loved to eat, especially fruit. There wasn’t a piece of fruit he’d ever turn down. I’ll think of him every time I slice into a peach or bite into an apple.
And he taught me that it’s never too late to live the life you want. About twelve years ago, he and my mom moved to the Arizona mountains and became farmers. He’d tell me all the time how these were the best years of his life. He gave everything he had to that land, to her, and to their life together.
And maybe above all, he showed me that humor can heal just about anything. Even when life was hard—and it often was for him—he’d make a joke, tell a story, or find a way to lighten the moment.
If there’s one thing I hope this reminds you of, it’s to slow down and cherish your people. Call the person you’ve been meaning to call. Tell someone you love them. Add a little humor and kindness to the world around you.
That’s what he did. And I want to keep doing that, too.