My father passed away at 63 when I was in my early 30’s, after a long battle with ALS, Lou Gehrig’s disease. In the end, he couldn’t walk, speak, or breathe on his own. He was trapped in a body that no longer worked, and I was still holding so much unresolved anger about our home and everything I thought he should have done differently.

At that point in my life, I didn’t yet have the maturity or the role models to recognize the love he had shown us. I couldn’t yet see the commitment it takes to keep showing up, especially when no one is clapping for you. I hadn’t lived long enough to understand that what we had, though far from easy, was still love. It wasn’t monetary, but it was meaningful. It was character building and it shaped me. My dad knew I was different. I didn’t learn the way others did but he rooted for me all the same. He treated me like I belonged. He taught both me how to take care of the things that matter, our homes, our cars, our families. He carried me on his shoulders, bounced me on his lap, danced with me, sang with me, and built joy out of scrap wood and patience. He rebuilt engines beside me, not just to teach me skills, but to share time and space.

And, of course, you’re probably wondering what our relationship was like around cannabis, which was legal in California. When he was in his forties, I used to find trash bags full of dried cannabis plants stashed near the house. One time, he completely lost it on me over a bag of catnip, thinking it was weed. That memory makes me laugh now, especially considering where my life and work have ended up. In some strange way, that too was a connection between us.

I didn’t go to his funeral. It would have been too much. I couldn’t process my father’s death surrounded by evangelical relatives who had kicked out their own children for dyeing their hair, who had been accused of abusing foreign exchange students, and who once insisted I needed an exorcism. What they called “spiritual warfare” was really just me being undiagnosed. While they were trying to cast out demons, my father was at my side—quietly helping me wash my daughter’s clothes, drive her to school, and make sure she was fed. He knew what it meant to parent. He knew it took two. And he knew I had to work.

Eventually, I got the help I needed. As an adult, I was diagnosed with epilepsy. I wasn’t broken or possessed, I was just misread, for years. I saved myself with medical care, logic, and self-advocacy. And I did it the way he taught me: by fixing what others ignored and showing up even when no one else did. I wish I had seen it sooner. I wish I had the maturity to understand his love before he was gone. But I believe he knew I would figure it out. I believe he trusted me to make sense of it in time. And I know, without question, that he loved me to the end.

He wasn’t perfect. He missed things. His brain was changing before any of us knew why. But his love was consistent. He was there when it mattered, especially when it wasn’t easy. Now I see him in myself. In my resilience. In my hands. In how I carry people and how I insist on being treated. He didn’t just raise me, he showed me what kind of care I deserve. And even though I didn’t know how to thank him while he was here, I hold that gratitude now. Every day.