And while writing those words feels unreal, what’s most real is this: My dad lived more life from a wheelchair than most people do on two legs. After a near-fatal motorcycle crash at 19, he was told he wouldn’t survive — or if he did, he’d never walk again. But he didn’t just survive. He thrived. He wheeled himself through college in the snow. He built a career as a graphic designer. He married the love of his life. He became a father — and then a grandfather. Every step (or wheel) of the way, he showed me what it means to live with courage, resilience, and love. He made it to 60. He made it through pain, setbacks, and heartbreak. He made it into our hearts forever. And now, even in grief, I know this: He didn’t just teach me how to live. He taught me how to live well. I miss you, Dad. Thank you for everything. I hope I make you proud.

I thought I had prepared for this moment. I thought I had done the work — you know, the mental checklist you go through when you know someone is nearing the end. But you can’t prepare for the finality of it. The coldness of the absence. You can’t prepare for the space that’s left behind once that person is gone. The day before the funeral, I sat in my childhood room, staring out the window. The sun was setting, just like it always had when I was a kid. I could hear the faint sound of my mom moving around downstairs, probably still trying to make everything perfect for the guests who would come to pay their respects.

But it wasn’t perfect. It couldn’t be. Not today.

The truth is, I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. How do you say goodbye to someone who has shaped your entire world? To someone whose voice still echoes in your mind, whose laugh still rings in your heart? It didn’t seem real, not even when I stood in front of his casket this morning, trying to find the right words to say. What do you say to someone who’s always been there, even when he couldn’t physically be there?

As I watched the people file into the room, sharing their memories of Dad, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret. I’d always been close to him, but I’d never truly understood the depth of his strength until now. When I was younger, I thought his life was defined by the accident. But as I listened to the stories today, I realized that wasn’t it at all. His life wasn’t about the chair he used to get around or the surgeries he endured. It was about the way he lived in spite of it all. The way he didn’t let the world or his circumstances define him. The way he always showed up — not just for me, but for everyone who needed him. It was about love. Love for my mom, for me, for his friends, for life itself.

I looked over at my mom, sitting in the front row, holding back tears. I knew it was harder for her. She had spent the last 40 years beside him, never once thinking of leaving. She loved him with a fierceness that was hard to describe, even now. I could see her gently wiping away a tear, trying to remain composed. I wondered if she felt the same guilt I did — the guilt that comes with the “I should have done more” thoughts. I couldn’t imagine how difficult it must have been for her to stand by him for so long, to witness his pain, to watch him struggle with things that many of us take for granted.

But she never showed it. Not once.

I remember when they first met. I was just a little kid, maybe five or six years old, and I would watch them from the kitchen while they sat on the couch together, laughing at something silly. I never really understood it, but there was something so special about the way my dad looked at her — the way he cherished her. I could tell even back then that he would never let anything come between them, not even the hardest parts of life. They were a team, and together, they were unstoppable. Even when everything else seemed uncertain, they had each other.

I always admired that. The way they never gave up on each other. And even now, as I stood there thinking about my dad’s legacy, I realized just how much he had taught me about love — how it wasn’t just a feeling, but a choice. He had chosen to love every single day, even on the days when it would have been easier to give up. I could only hope to be half the partner he had been to my mom.

There’s a weird kind of weight that comes with grief. It’s not just the sadness. It’s the uncertainty that creeps in afterward. The sudden realization that life is different now. The world continues to turn, but it feels off-balance. Like you’re walking on a tightrope, and you can’t quite find your footing. I don’t know how long it will take for me to find that balance again, but I do know this: I’ll never forget the lessons my dad taught me. And I’ll carry them with me, no matter where life takes me next.

As I looked out over the sea of faces in the funeral home, I saw so many people who had been touched by my dad in one way or another. There was Mr. Timmons, the neighbor who had been a constant presence throughout our childhood. There was Sarah, the woman who had worked with him at the design firm for years. There was Jason, one of his old friends from college, who had traveled all the way from out of state to be here today. They all had stories to tell, stories of my dad’s kindness, his humor, his generosity.

I felt a sense of pride swell in my chest. My dad hadn’t just been a great father to me — he had been a great man to everyone he met. He had made an impact on people’s lives in ways I never fully realized until now. It wasn’t just the big moments, like when he stood up for someone who couldn’t stand up for themselves, or when he used his art to help others see the world differently. It was the small, everyday moments — the way he always took the time to listen, to offer a kind word, to make someone laugh. Those moments, I now realized, were what made him so unforgettable.

I started to think back to when I was a teenager. It wasn’t always easy to appreciate my dad’s teachings. When you’re young, you think you know everything. I was no exception. I remember being frustrated with him, thinking he didn’t understand me or my friends. But now, in the quiet of this funeral home, I realized he had always understood me better than I had understood myself. He saw the potential in me long before I saw it in myself. And now, as an adult, I was finally starting to see it too.

It wasn’t just about the career I had chosen or the path I had taken in life. It was about the kind of person I was becoming. Would I be kind? Would I be compassionate? Would I be strong enough to face the challenges life would throw my way, just like he had done? I had so many questions, and I wasn’t sure I had all the answers. But I did know one thing: I would strive to live a life as full and meaningful as his. A life of purpose, of love, and of resilience.

As the ceremony came to an end, I found myself standing by the door, greeting people as they left. I smiled and thanked them for coming, but inside, I was still processing everything. How do you process the end of something so significant? How do you move forward when part of your foundation has just been ripped away?

It wasn’t until I got home that evening, after all the guests had left and the house was quiet, that I felt the full weight of it. I walked into my dad’s office, the room where he had spent countless hours working on his designs. The walls were lined with sketches, paintings, and photos of his work. It was a room filled with the life he had built, the legacy he had created.

I sat at his desk and ran my fingers over the familiar objects — his favorite pen, the coffee cup that never seemed to empty, the old record player that had played soft jazz while he worked. It all felt so surreal. But in that moment, I realized that he wasn’t really gone. He had left his mark on every part of this house, every part of our lives. His presence was in the quiet hum of the air conditioning, in the old leather chair I had sat in a thousand times, in the photographs that adorned the walls.

My dad had lived a full life. It hadn’t been easy, and there were times when it seemed like he was fighting a losing battle. But he had never given up. And I knew, deep down, that his story wasn’t finished yet. It was up to me, and to the people he had touched, to carry it forward.

As I stood up and walked toward the window, I looked out at the city below. The lights twinkled in the distance, a reflection of the world my dad had once navigated with his wheelchair. I thought about all the places he had been, all the things he had done, and all the people he had loved. And I realized that his journey wasn’t defined by the accident or the chair he had used to get around. It was defined by the love he had given, the courage he had shown, and the life he had lived.

I didn’t need to be afraid anymore. My dad had taught me how to live well, even when life didn’t go the way you expected. And I would carry that lesson with me, for the rest of my life.

Thank you, Dad. You may be gone, but your spirit will live on in me, in our family, and in every life you touched. And I will make you proud.