He was 96.
I don’t feel sad. I don’t feel much of anything, honestly. And maybe that’s the part that gets me — the guilt of not feeling what I think I’m supposed to feel. Like I should be crying. Like I should be wrecked.
But I’m not.
My dad and I were never close. He was a selfish man. He cared more about his trophies, his accomplishments, his version of the story than he did about being present for his kids. That’s just the truth. I still loved him. But love and closeness aren’t the same thing.
Here’s what I’ll give him — he was a hell of a grandpa. He loved my kids. Lit up around them. Watching him interact with them gave me something I never got from him directly. And I’ll hold onto that.
He had dementia. A brutal case. By the end, he couldn’t remember my wife. Couldn’t remember his grandkids. We moved to Arizona in 2017 when he still knew who we were. I didn’t see him again until winter break 2024. That was the last time.
I came to terms with who he was a long time ago. He wasn’t the dad I thought he should be. But I realized — no one hands you a guidebook when you become a father. No one tells you how heavy it gets. He did what he could with what he had. That’s all any of us can do.
Most people I know seem close with their parents. They call. They visit. They cry when they lose them. When my grandma passed in 2010, I was a fucking mess. That one gutted me. She taught me what it means to love family. She poured into me. My dad? That wasn’t him. Not even close.
If I’m being real — and I’m always going to be real here — part of what I feel is relief. And I’m done feeling guilty about that.
There’s a reason I ride. There’s a reason I show up to the trail when the noise gets loud. The desert doesn’t care about your dad issues. The trail doesn’t ask if you’re okay. It just asks you to be present. Pedal. Breathe. Focus on the next thing in front of you. That’s what I’ll do tomorrow. And the day after that.
I love you, Dad. I’m glad you lived the life you wanted, on your own terms. You had stories for days — adventures, travels, a life lived loud. I’ll carry the good moments. The ones where we sat together watching my kids laugh. That was enough.
Rest in peace.
This is my last photo with him. December 2024.
Him and his wife Yumiko 2017.
