#losingafather

From the very beginning, I was the apple of my father’s eye. His joy lived not in grand gestures, but in the quiet, sacred corners of our family life. I always knew that I held a special place in his heart—not just because of what he said, but because of how he made me feel. There was an unspoken devotion in the way he looked at me, as if my existence alone gave his life greater meaning. People would often remark that I resembled him most, not just in features but in spirit. I looked like him, they said, and in many ways, I loved like him too. As a little girl, I carried that resemblance proudly. In his presence, I felt completely safe, completely known, and deeply loved.

Though we had nannies during the day, my real comfort began when my father returned home from work. He would scoop me up in his arms, and it felt like the world reset itself. If I was crying, he noticed immediately. His voice would sharpen with concern as he asked the nannies why his daughter was upset. His protectiveness wasn’t dramatic; it was deeply instinctual. His love was steady, constant, and fiercely protective. I know now that his arms were not only a physical refuge—they were my first true home.

As a child, I suffered from asthma, which brought with it limitations and fear. But my father didn’t simply administer medicine and walk away. Instead, he sought healing in the natural world. Every morning, long before the city stirred, he would wake me and carry me to the ocean. He believed the sea air held restorative power, and perhaps it did—but more than that, it was the rhythm of his commitment that healed me. Morning after morning, he carried me through the cool dawn mist, whispering soothing words and shielding me from the wind. Over time, my asthma eased and eventually disappeared. It may have seemed like magic to an outsider, but I knew it was love—the kind of love that sacrifices sleep, comfort, and convenience for the quiet hope of making someone else better.

He expressed love in ways both simple and profound. After school, on long afternoons, he would press a coin into my hand and whisper, "Don’t tell your Mum. Go buy something you like." It wasn’t about the money. It was about the shared mischief, the twinkle in his eye, the secret little bond between father and daughter. Those moments left a deeper impression on me than any lavish gift ever could.

But not everyone saw this bond with understanding. My sister, in particular, felt the inequality in his attentions. It caused tension, resentment, and conflict between us. And yet, as I grew older, I realized that my father loved both his daughters deeply. He simply expressed it in the only way he knew how—with his time, his protection, and his devotion. It was never about favoritism; it was about connection. He gave from the heart, even if unevenly distributed.

Our family was not without hardship. We had struggles—financial, emotional, and spiritual. But my parents never walked away from each other or from us. They stood firm, even when the winds of difficulty blew through our lives. My father, in particular, carried burdens silently and with immense strength. In Saipan, he worked tirelessly under the sun, his body aching and his shoes worn through. Yet, he never failed to send money home so I could study, eat, and thrive. I never missed a tuition payment. I never worried about whether I could continue. While I sat in classrooms filled with dreams, he was out there turning pain into possibility. The life I live now—my career, my education, my peace of mind—was built on the back of his tireless sacrifice. I became a dentist because he laid the foundation stone with his own hands, with sweat and suffering he never made me witness. And he never complained. Not once. He made my comfort his mission.

When I strayed from our spiritual path—the faith he held so dear—he didn’t scold me. He didn’t shame me. Instead, he continued to invite me back with love. He would say, "Let’s go shopping," whenever I said I didn’t have clothes for church. He made no demands, only gentle invitations. His love was unconditional. It didn’t rise and fall with my beliefs or behaviors. It remained. Later in life, when Alzheimer’s began to take small pieces of his memory, it never touched his heart. Even when details slipped, his identity as my father remained intact. He still opened the mail. He still paid the bills. He still took pride in his responsibilities. And even as the disease progressed, he never forgot who I was. His connection to me was deeper than memory. It lived in his bones, just as mine lives in me now.

During one of the darkest periods of my own life, I found myself on the edge of despair. Everything seemed broken. But once again, it was my father who offered the spark of possibility. "Why not use Noble Park?" he said. That simple sentence rekindled a dream, a purpose, a new beginning. His wisdom often came like that—quiet, understated, but piercing in clarity. He reminded me that even when everything feels lost, something new can grow from the ruins. His legacy was not in wealth or property, but in how he built hope from hardship.

He taught me that real strength isn’t about dominating a room or winning an argument. It’s about getting up every time you fall, even if your legs are shaking. He showed me that true resilience is silent and steady—a refusal to give in when the world presses down. He taught me to fight without violence, to endure without bitterness, and to face the storm not with rage but with resolve. He taught me how to lose. Yes, lose. With grace. With dignity. He taught me that even when life doesn’t go your way, you don’t crumble. You adapt. You rebuild. You try again. When the world gives you no guarantees, you make your own promise: to never stop moving forward.

When everything felt unsafe, he was my anchor. He showed me how to plant my feet in courage, to claim space in a world that often tells women to shrink. He never made me feel like I was too much or not enough. In his eyes, I was always just right. He believed that broken roads still lead somewhere beautiful—if you walk them with love, humility, and faith.

He valued truth over recognition. He believed that how you treat people matters more than any title. He taught me to speak softly, act with kindness, and stand for what is right—even when it’s hard, especially when it’s hard. He lived his values every day. His measure of success was not how high you climb, but how well you carry others with you.

From him, I learned that life will test you, over and over. But your response is where your strength lies. He showed me that you don’t need to roar to be powerful. You just need to keep going. You just need to stay honest. You just need to love.

He taught me the value of responsibility—not just to oneself, but to others. That being a good provider wasn’t only about financial support. It was about presence. It was about showing up—when it was inconvenient, when you were tired, when you had nothing left to give. And he did, every time. Without complaint. Without conditions.

He modeled humility in every aspect of life. He didn’t boast of his sacrifices. He didn’t demand praise. He simply did what needed to be done, and in that silence, he taught me the power of quiet dignity.

He taught me to forgive—deeply, truly. Not just to move on, but to release bitterness. To understand that everyone is carrying something invisible. That judgment only distances, but empathy heals.

He believed in patience, in giving things time to grow. When my life fell apart, I expected solutions to come quickly. But he reminded me to slow down, to nurture my new beginning like a seed, not a shortcut.

He taught me the meaning of legacy. Not what you leave in your will, but what you leave in people. The kind of mark that doesn’t fade with time.

When I say I learned everything from my father, I don’t mean math or history or the things schools measure. I mean the real lessons: how to be a decent human being. How to rise when it’s easier to collapse. How to forgive. How to start again. How to love someone so much that their pain becomes your mission and their joy your reward.

Even now, though he’s gone, I feel him. In the rustling of trees. In the stillness of early morning. In the steadiness I feel when life spins too fast. He is the voice inside me that says, "You can do this." He is the quiet courage I find when I want to give up.

Through every hardship, I now understand: my father’s love never left. It lives in my hands, in my choices, in the woman I’ve become. The world may never truly know what he gave—but I do. And I will carry it forward. Not just as his daughter. But as a testament to the man who once held me, and never let go.

In Loving Memory of My Dad, Who Passed Away on August 3, 2025, at 9:40 PM

1/11/18 | 12:47 AM

As I lie down, I can't help but remember him; his eyes and classic smile. His eyes that radiates like the sun's brightness and his smile that lights up my whole world. It seems just like yesterday when we were joking around and now, I cannot hold his calloused hands forever. I want to hug and kiss him but I cannot. I want to cuddle with him but I cannot.

My father went back to his home in Heaven. I know the fact but there are times like now when I cannot believe that he already left. I miss him so much, yes, but there is one person who misses him terribly - my mom. It hurts me more to see my mom crying every hour calling for his name. If we just only knew you would be gone so soon, we would make sure to make more millions of memories with you. But that is the thing about death, it comes whether you are prepared or not, most of the time - not.