![]() ![]() My mom told me about his random acts of kindness like giving some cash or food to homeless people at a stoplight. I adopted his kindness and caringness by supporting social issues I care about through volunteering and advocacy. My dad has inspired me to be someone to do good in the world. As a result of reading these stories and having conversations with people that knew him, the event became more of a celebration of my father’s life rather than the marking of a grim milestone. On the tenth anniversary of his passing, I started a book where his co-workers, friends, and relatives wrote their favorite memories of him. The more I learned about him, the more I felt connected and more happy than sad. I discovered the immense amount of love he had for me. Through the stories I was told about him, I learned the importance of hard work, kindness, showing up, and helping people. These similarities allowed me to feel closer to him. I saw more and more how we were alike, not just physically. I laughed and cried along while looking at the pictures of the horrendous bowl haircuts he gave me. She would always describe our similarities: our laughs, extraversion, caringness, and even stubbornness. But then my mom started to tell me more about my dad through stories. Talking about him made me realize the little time we shared. Playing catch with him, eating his Korean BBQ ribs, or eating at my favorite noodle soup place after school first came to mind. When my counselor asked me about my favorite memories with him, I could only list a couple of moments that I kept on recycling in my mind. In the third grade, I attended therapy sessions at my school. To fill in the void, I started to talk about him more. I wanted to think of happy things when I thought of my dad, but every time I did, it was only the fact that he wasn’t here with me that came to mind. While I valued their support, the sympathy only triggered a perpetual cycle of extreme sadness, accompanied by crying. I would always awkwardly explain my situation and my friends would send me sympathy. Whenever the discussion of my dad’s death came up, I felt uncomfortable and powerless. Starting in the second grade, I felt sorry for myself. Rather than turning inwards, I started to learn more about my dad through family members and stories. The heavy feeling strikes range from the most random moments to the big milestones in my life. As I grew older, however, the reality that my dad was gone, slowly became real and more intense. To overcome the little knowledge I had of my dad, I was interested in learning about him.Īs a child, I never had to think about death, so my dad’s passing felt surreal to me. This move was an attempt to move on-to leave behind the things that would remind us of our loss. My mom and I moved to San Francisco to start a new life, leaving behind a house, community, and a sense of normalcy. When I was six years old, my dad passed away unexpectedly. Although grief requires moving on, it is important to cherish the memories I have with him. It was not until then that I realized I will never get to witness this similarity in person. I feel a culmination of grief, sadness, and anger. But then my heartbeat accelerates faster and I start to taste the salty tears that pour down my face. I smile to myself, liking how we share something similar. ![]() “Laura, you are just like your dad,” my mom tells me after I crack a joke. ![]()
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