My dad was the whisper in my ear in the corner of a crowded party. His sole intention was to make me laugh.
Our relationship felt less father-daughter and more like we’d each found a kindred spirit. We shared similar outlooks on life and mirrored each other’s mannerisms. Sometimes, we watched TV together. Our favorite was MMA. We were particularly fascinated by the women—driven athletes who, in our opinion, went way harder than the men.
My dad was eager to expose me to this phenomenal strength at a young age. He needed me to know this truth: I was the only one who could ever hold myself back. Whether physical, mental, emotional, or spiritual, he believed pushing forward with boldness and without fear was the only option.
It’s how he barreled through his own life, transitioning seamlessly from student to 19-year-old father to police officer to robber to pimp to white-collar professional to hypnotherapist, one breath and one laugh at a time. It was why he was so intent on writing a memoir before he passed. He wanted other people to know that turning your life around was possible, no matter how dark the previous path had been colored.
Saying goodbye to my dad
My dad grew uncharacteristically sentimental on his deathbed. He pointed to the photos we’d hung up of my sisters and their husbands and thanked God for bringing love into their lives. He looked at me and told me he wanted me to find my “soulmate,” and I bit back shock. He’d never talked to me like that before.
He’d always encouraged me to be independent, to find my own way in the world and never have to rely on someone else. He didn’t want me to settle; he wanted everything for me. He’d convinced me that if I wasn’t being treated like a queen, it wasn’t even an option.
Because of him, I’d spent my twenties dating ruthlessly, dropping people after a few weeks for the smallest of indiscretions. He’d convinced me of my own worth—maybe even a little too much—and now he was telling me that he wanted me to find someone to love with none of the intrinsic doubt and wariness he’d instilled in me.
After he died, I knew it was time for me to pack up and leave New York—at least for the time being. It was an idea I’d started toying with during the pandemic, when I was hit with a powerful realization: life can come to an end at any moment, and the most important thing in it isn’t a lucrative career. It’s love. Losing my father solidified this suspicion for me.
My mom moved back in the same year and we clung to each other, wading through our grief together. She found a group for widows, seeking solace in community. I threw myself into my work and got started on publishing his memoir. I spent more time with friends and family than I had in years. It was nice to be near my tribe again, but holidays and group gatherings felt desolate without that boisterous voice in my ear cracking jokes at the world’s expense.
The silence was so hard to hear.
I decided to take up kickboxing. I wanted to explore what we’d had mutual respect for, and I was desperate to do something with my grief. I bought some Groupons, shopping around at local gyms to learn the basics of the sport. I exploded against the punching bags, surprising myself with how much I had pent up inside. I left each training session feeling powerful, rejuvenated, and completely spent. Like I had control over one thing, however small.
One Groupon rolled into another, and I still felt so lost. For a while, the only thing that made sense was this random new hobby. And then the next Groupon came around, and I found myself in Shaun’s class.
Saying hello to life after death
My first impression was that he was rude.
“You’re supposed to show up 15 minutes early on your first day.”
It was actually my second day, but he didn’t know that.
He was rigid and routine-oriented, just like me, so he was annoyed that I’d shown up a mere three minutes early. I was just as annoyed with what felt like him writing me off, convinced that I’d hate the class and wouldn’t want to return.
But my opinion changed the moment he started teaching.
I saw him; this was someone who lived and breathed martial arts. A dedicated athlete, and a true nerd. I felt drawn to a kindred spirit for the second time in my life.
Shaun had a fire in him that warmed me the first day; I recognized it immediately because it was the same kind of fire that had been passed down to me from the most passionate person I’d ever known.
Months passed and the lines between us began to blur as he started warming himself with my own fire, which so closely resembled the one that burned in him.
It wasn’t long before his voice became a witty whisper in my ear. He cracked jokes that looked like the ones he lobbed at his other students on the surface, but I knew they were tailored for me. I began to watch him in a different way as I felt an attraction forming. I was used to pushing those feelings down. I’d spent my life “better on my own”, and I didn’t want to ruin what had become my haven from grief by crossing a line with the instructor.
But the chemistry between us was persistent, and the things my dad had said to me about finding love wouldn’t leave my mind. I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was what he’d been talking about…although my old-fashioned father would have balked at the face tattoos.
Six months later, I was in Shaun’s bedroom watching him play guitar, listening to him talk about life, and holding his steady gaze as he inched closer, bravely crossing the barrier and closing the gap between us for good.
Finding nirvana
Shaun proposed to me less than a month later, and although I’d spent my life being so sure about not being sure about anyone, I said yes without hesitation. It was the easiest decision I’ve ever made.
I’ve struggled to communicate exactly why I was able to say yes to him so quickly. Some of my loved ones were shocked by the sudden announcement, and while I understood their reaction, I knew what I felt in my gut was true and right for me.
I still don’t quite know how to explain such a surreal and innate experience; the only thing I’ve come to understand about it is, if you don’t understand, you haven’t felt what I did when we met. It’s a type of love we all deserve to know.
The day after Shaun proposed, I called out to my dad for confirmation that I was making the right choice. His response came in the form of “You Make Me Feel Like Dancing” by Leo Sayer coming on at a coffee shop I frequented to get work done. I’d never heard them play ’60s pop before; it made the sounds all the more special. I smiled at the speaker, feeling my dad’s sunshine wash over me. It was one of his favorite songs; we used to sing and dance to it together.
Having a parent you can depend on is worth its weight in gold, but it’s even more important to learn how to listen closely once they’ve gone, because the parenting doesn’t stop when their breath does. As I dance and laugh and live with Shaun, my soulmate, my love, my very best friend, I can feel my dad smiling along with us, grateful that he raised someone who knows how to dream, do, and roll with the punches.
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