It’s hard to believe it’s been almost a month since our world turned upside down. I’ve been holding my breath, waiting for this milestone, as if reaching it might somehow anchor me to the reality of losing my dad. But it still feels unreal. I catch myself expecting to hear his voice in the background when I call my mom. And the holidays hit harder this year—emotionally heavier than I anticipated.
I know the coming months won’t be easier. We’ll face the year of “firsts”: the first Father’s Day without him, the first biking season he would have loved, and countless other “firsts”. Then, there will be the unexpected moments that catch us off guard—graduations, weddings, births. Moments of joy and celebration made bittersweet by his absence. These are the times I know will take my breath away, leaving me wiping away tears I didn’t realize were still there to be shed.
What makes this milestone even harder is how distorted time feels. Under normal circumstances, a month can feel long, but in this case, it’s nothing. It feels like just yesterday we were told my dad didn’t make it through emergency brain surgery. The shock of that news, the knowing decision to take him off life support—it’s all so vivid in my mind. I can still feel it in my body and senses as if it had just happened.
Through this haze of grief, I’ve been thinking a lot about time and how I want to live my life moving forward. My dad lived with intention. If you had a relationship with him, it was because he chose it. He valued his time and spent it exactly how he wanted.
He didn’t wait for others to make plans. When he wanted to ride his bike, he didn’t wait for company—he just went. When he was ready to leave a party, he left. He never apologized for having prior commitments or rearranged his schedule to accommodate someone else. Instead, he asked others to adjust. It wasn’t selfish; it was purposeful. He knew what mattered to him, and he honored it.
At times, his approach frustrated me. Like most of us, I’ve always believed there are things we have to do, whether we want to or not. But now, I’m seeing the beauty in how he lived. He knew what brought him joy, what fed his soul, and he protected those things fiercely.
This year, I’ve chosen the word to guide me: Intention.
The Definition of Intention
noun
in·ten·tion
- a. what one intends to do or bring about
b. the object for which a prayer, mass, or pious act is offered - a determination to act in a certain way: resolve
- purpose with respect to marriage (intentions, plural)
- import, significance
- a process or manner of healing of incised wounds
I’ve been reflecting on these definitions, and they feel so fitting. Intention is both a goal and a way of living. It’s also healing—a slow process of stitching together wounds, both physical and emotional.
This word will be my anchor as I navigate life without my dad. I want to live with the same clarity and resolve he did, honoring my time and aligning my actions with my values. It won’t be easy. Grief has a way of clouding everything, but I know this practice will help me feel closer to him.
As I explore this word and its significance in my life, I’ll also explore my memories of my dad. How he lived with intention. How he taught me—sometimes in ways I didn’t realize at the time—to do the same.
I know he’ll always be with us. His spirit, his memory, and his legacy will continue to live on in everything we do. And as I strive to live with intention, I hope to carry forward the lessons he left behind.
