Dads

Father’s Day has a way of making you think. Not just about the dad you have, but about all the different shapes a dad can take.

I’ve been lucky. My circle is full of people who have been a dad to me in one way or another: some by blood, some by choice, some just by showing up when it counted. And today, I find myself thinking about all of them.

My own dad and I: we’re complicated.

He’s a quiet man. Reserved. Not the type to wear his heart on his sleeve. But strong: genuinely, physically strong. Growing up, he was the one who could lift me up onto the horse so I could ride just like everyone else. No fuss, no hesitation. He just did it. That meant more than I probably ever told him.

But the man is also a little squeamish.

I remember the time I cut open my chin so badly you could stick your finger through my lip like a fish. My dad: tough guy, farm strong, lifts his kid onto horses without blinking: had to sit down. Got a little queasy. I love that about him, honestly. It’s one of the few cracks in the armor that ever showed.

Dad, if you’re reading this: you know I tell this story with love.

The other one I remember was when my grandmother passed away. His mother. It was one of the very few times I ever saw him cry.

That’s the thing about reserved people. The emotion is in there. It just needs something big enough to bring it out.

We’re not close in the way some people are close with their fathers. We don’t talk every day. Our relationship has had its rough patches, and I won’t pretend otherwise.

But he’s here.

And that matters more than I used to let myself admit.

I’ve watched friends lose their dads. I’ve seen the weight of that absence on Father’s Day: the empty chairs, the forced smiles, the quiet grief that doesn’t go away. I know that one day, I’ll be in that place too.

One day I won’t have mine.

So today, I choose gratitude. For the complicated. For the quiet. For the distance that still somehow holds love in it.

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Dads

Dads are strong.
Dads are brave.
Dads are the quiet ones:
reserved, contained, restrained.

Dads are strong enough
to lift you on a horse,
to make you feel like everyone else:
steady, sure, of course.

Dads don’t always say it.
Sometimes they never do.
But love doesn’t need a lot of words
to still come shining through.

Dads are a little squeamish
when the blood starts flowing free.
He had to sit down for that one:
my chin split, lip like a fish on the sea.

My dad and I,
we’re not always close.
Our relationship is complicated:
the kind that teaches you the most.

But he’s still here.
And I still call.
And somewhere in that quiet space
is love enough for all.

I know what it means to have him.
I’ve watched my friends say goodbye.
I’ve seen the empty chairs on days like this
and heard the muffled cries.

I saw him cry once: maybe twice.
When grandma left this earth.
That crack in all that quiet strength
showed everything it’s worth.

One day I won’t have mine.
That thought sits heavy, true.
So today I choose gratitude:
for all the complicated too.

Dads are many things.
No single mold or measure.
I am one of the lucky ones:
and that I will always treasure.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

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If you still have your dad: call him. Even if it’s complicated. Even if you don’t know what to say. The call matters more than the words.

And if you don’t: I see you today. The empty chair is real, and so is the love that filled it.

To every kind of dad out there: happy Father’s Day.

What does Father’s Day look like for you? I’d love to hear in the comments.