i am my father’s daughter

Whether or not I want to admit it, I am my father’s daughter. I had a moment sailing the other day, cruising offshore down the Pacific Coast of Baja, Mexico when the song came on. Through It All by Charlie Puth. I hadn’t heard it in a long time, but it all came rushing back. This is my father’s song.

It was 2020. I had just gone through an agonizing breakup. The COVID rollercoaster was still very much a thing. And remote work had blurred all the boundaries in my life. That August, I got a voicemail from my father telling me his cancer was back.

He left a message because we weren’t speaking. Not since 2017, when I asked him not to contact me again unless he was making better choices – choices that didn’t involve hurting himself or the people around him. I had just scratched the surface learning of his infidelities. I knew he was drinking again, despite still attending AA meetings, and lying to his sponsor about it.

There was too much I couldn’t ignore. People I loved were caught in the fallout of his actions, and I refused to be part of it. I knew he loved me, but I needed that love to show up in his actions, not just in words over the phone. Each “I love you” felt like a wrench in my chest.

I remember the boundary-setting call clearly. I’d worked up the courage to call, plainly asked him, “please don’t reach out to me until you’re making better choices.” He paused, quietly said, “okay, I understand,” and hung up as I began crying and told him I loved him. I was shocked most of all by how easily the words rolled off my tongue after having agonized about how to make the call.  

My parents were still living together at the time, and I had told my mom I wouldn’t return to Kentucky until that changed. A few months later, I did see him – for a weekend – at my cousin’s wedding. We were cordial, even shared a few laughs (humor was always his superpower), but the distance between us remained.

By the time I got that voicemail in 2020, my parents had separated. I had no intention of seeing him. I planned a road trip from California to Kentucky to visit my mom, reset, and soak up time with old friends, familiar forests in the Red River Gorge, and southern comfort food. This trip was for me! I made a quick stop in Colorado to visit a friend, then drove the rest of the way east in one long, blurry push.

October came and went. Then in November, my father landed in the hospital. My mom, still looped into his care when he couldn’t do it himself, was often the one to respond when emergencies came along. I spent what felt like days unsure of what to do – torn between my hurt and the gravity of the situation.

Eventually, I decided to visit. But I didn’t go alone. I asked my mom to come with me.

He was in and out of lucidity, but when he surfaced, he knew who I was. Weird part was that I barely recognized him. His face was sunken, his skin pale and loose on his bones, his body not quite his own anymore.

We made a few visits, and I started to get to know his care team. The conversations quickly shifted from rehab to comfort care. His home wasn’t suitable for support, and skilled nursing options faded into the background as hospice came into focus.

I went one last time, alone. I sat beside his bed and had a quiet conversation with him expressing how angry I was. How much I loved him. How I didn’t understand the choices he made – how he kept hurting people, even when he didn’t mean to. We shared something like peace in those moments. He writhed and moaned so I checked in with his care team, making sure they were following through on our comfort care plan before I went home.

That was November 5th. The last time I saw him.

My brother had come into town after hearing the news of my father. We connected over how complicated it all was. I told him about my visit, and it helped to have someone around who understood the layers. Wishing the two of us could spend more time together, I left having already made plans to meet a close friend in New Mexico for a weekend of camping.

As I drove west, my father entered hospice care. He held on long enough for me to be where I needed to be: outside, grounded by nature, surrounded by chosen family. On November 9th, I left New Mexico and headed back toward California.

Then the song came on.

It had played a hundred times before, but this time I hit repeat. And again. Suddenly, I knew – this was his song.

I texted it to my mom, who was sitting beside him in hospice. She told me she would play it for him. Not long after, she called: he had passed.

My father understood the world through music. It was only fitting that he would leave it that way too.

“I’ve already loved more than I thought I could love someone
I’ve already felt my heart break
And I’ve already fell so many times but I got back up
But at least I did it my way.
Yeah, I’ve been through it all…”
—Charlie Puth, Through It All

Out on the water the other day, when the song started, the tears came hard. He would’ve loved sailing. It hit me – he actually kind of did, in his own way.

When I was a kid, my father went through a kite phase. He was obsessed with two-string sport kites – those powerful, agile ones you could really feel. He’d fly them for hours: at the beach, in the park, on family vacations. He entered kite festivals. He couldn’t get enough.

My mom got into sewing kites to support his obsession. They were a team, even in their dysfunction.

Back then, I didn’t get it. I rolled my eyes at the whole thing. But now? Now I understand.

When you’re sailing – or kitesurfing, or even (I guess) flying a sport kite – you’re fully present. It’s just you, the wind, and your response to it. You listen with your entire body. You make tiny adjustments. You surrender. You belong.

I wish he could have gotten out of his own way long enough to follow that joy to its full expression. I think about that a lot. I think about how lucky I am to have found my own version of it.

I like to believe he’s proud of me – of how I’ve chosen to move through the world. Despite the mess, despite the grief, despite the questions that still don’t have answers.

He didn’t get to live this part of life. But I do.

And when the wind fills my sails, I feel him. I feel myself.

I am my father’s daughter. And at least I’m doing it my way.