Thank You, Dad

Dear Dad,

As I pack up my apartment and prepare to move across the country for my new job, I've been thinking a lot about how I got here. Among the boxes and bubble wrap, I keep finding reminders of your influence – the dog-eared copy of "To Kill a Mockingbird" you gave me on my 12th birthday, the toolkit you assembled when I moved into my first dorm room (which, yes, I've actually learned to use), and photos from countless camping trips where you patiently taught me about resilience without ever using the word.

I realized that in our family's comfortable silence, in our shared understanding that emotions are often expressed through actions rather than words, I've never properly thanked you for the profound ways you've shaped who I am. So before this next big life transition, I wanted to put into writing what I hope you already know through all our unspoken moments.

Camping, 2008

First catch, 2010

Building the treehouse

Graduation, 2023

Thank you for teaching me work ethic without ever having to lecture me about it. I watched you wake up at 5:30 every morning, put on your boots, and head to the construction site in all weather – never complaining, never seeking recognition, just quietly doing what needed to be done to support our family. When I was in high school and you caught me trying to cut corners on a science project, you didn't yell. You just said, "That's not how we do things," and stayed up until midnight helping me rebuild it properly. That simple statement – "that's not how we do things" – has become an internal compass that guides me whenever I'm tempted to take shortcuts.

Thank you for showing me what healthy masculinity looks like. You taught me that strength isn't about dominating others but about being steady during storms. I remember when Mom was sick and you managed to be both mother and father to me while taking care of her – cooking meals, helping with homework, and still showing up fully for your job. Yet you never acted like this was extraordinary or sought praise for it. You just quietly redefined what manhood could be for me, showing me that real men can be gentle, vulnerable, and nurturing without sacrificing an ounce of their strength.

Thank you for teaching me how to work with my hands. Some of my fondest memories are from our weekend projects – building the treehouse, fixing the old Chevy, constructing mom's garden beds. You never got impatient when I stripped a screw or measured wrong, just calmly showed me how to fix my mistakes. "Measure twice, cut once" has become a life philosophy that extends far beyond woodworking. Those skills have saved me thousands of dollars over the years, but more importantly, they gave me confidence that I can figure things out and solve problems with patience and the right tools.

Thank you for supporting my education in ways I didn't fully appreciate until I was older. You didn't go to college yourself, but you made sure I had every opportunity to pursue my academic interests. I remember overhearing you and Mom talking about the second job you took to save for my tuition. I was in middle school then and didn't understand the sacrifice, but I do now. When I complained about difficult classes or demanding professors, you never let me quit, always saying, "You'll thank yourself later." You were right, as usual.

Thank you for giving me roots and wings. You've built such a solid home – not just physically but emotionally – that I've always felt secure enough to take risks and explore the world. You never made me feel guilty about moving away for college or taking internships in different states. Instead, you helped me pack the car and simply said, "The door is always open." That security, knowing I always have a place to return to, has been the foundation that allows me to be brave.

Thank you for teaching me about nature and silence. Our fishing trips and camping weekends weren't just recreation; they were masterclasses in patience, observation, and appreciation for the world beyond human concerns. You taught me to identify bird calls, track animals, and most importantly, to just sit quietly sometimes and let nature speak. In our increasingly noisy, distracted world, the ability to be comfortable with silence has been one of your most valuable gifts to me.

Dad, I know you're not one for long emotional conversations, and you'll probably be a bit uncomfortable reading this letter. That's okay. Just know that as I start this new chapter on the other side of the country, I carry your lessons with me everyday. When I face challenges or uncertainty, I often find myself thinking, "What would Dad do?" – and the answer usually involves showing up consistently, working hard without complaint, helping others without expectation of recognition, and finding moments of simple joy along the way.

I hope I've made you proud, though I know you'd never pressure me with that expectation. I hope too that I can one day provide the same steady, quiet strength for my own children that you've given me.