A Letter to My Father, and to Every Dad Who Still Has Time

This is not just for my dad — it’s for every father who still has the chance to cross the line of shame and meet their children where love is waiting.

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Dear Dad,

It’s funny sitting with this notepad — it feels like the reason I had to learn every letter and word in my life was so I could write this to you. Maybe that sounds dramatic. Maybe it’s like the Super Bowl — neither of us cares much for it, but we both love a good American analogy.

There’s a lot of missed time between us. I wish we’d seen each other evolve. The worst thing about a broken bond, is that trust frays. Cerebrally I trust you. My heart loves you. But our nervous systems? They’re not quite settled yet. That’s okay — I think we have time, and neuroplasticity on our side.

I almost didn’t write this because I didn’t want to make you feel bad. I kept striking parts out, but I need to tell you one thing that shaped why this matters: for years I wrote a letter to Mom and promised “tomorrow” I’d send it. One day, when we barely spoke, you called and told me she was dead. I don’t want to risk “tomorrow” again. Tomorrow is not guaranteed. That’s why I’m writing this now — and why I’m writing it publicly for any dad who can’t step across the line of shame to be there for his child.

We all make mistakes. People tell me I should write a memoir. Shame has stopped me — the fear that my mistakes, made public, would freeze me in the eyes of others. Ten years ago, I wouldn’t have recognized the person I am today. Now people call me kind, considerate, thoughtful, selfless. I wasn’t those things a decade ago. You’d be proud of who I am now, and that pride isn’t “in spite of you.” It’s because of what you taught me — stubbornness, keeping my word, integrity, holding to values. I didn’t inherit perfection, but I inherited resolve.

I remember the day everything erupted and I knew my marriage was over. I paced the backyard for half an hour before calling you in defeat. I don’t know why I didn’t want to fail you — maybe because failing you felt like failing myself — but you said, simply, “That’s how it had to happen.” I filed that away and only now understand how true it was.

Living in Texas — a place I once vowed never to visit — I’ve been surprised by what I carried out of that marriage: the importance of family. I grew up fiercely independent from you and thought it strange that he saw his parents every day. In hindsight, that was a sign of incompatibility. Still, I learned something I wouldn’t have otherwise.

I don’t know how many days we have left. Death has been shadowing our family in ways I’ve hardly only read about, and it keeps me curious about where we may meet in the afterlife. But I promise: as I share my life publicly to alchemize meaning from memory, none of it should reflect badly on you. You did the best you could. I see it in the way you raise Tae. If you made the same mistakes again, I wouldn’t be so forgiving — because I love him more than you can imagine — and you knew that.

I have watched you chase big dreams inside the moral code you built for yourself. I have seen you fail and shoulder hardship again and again. I can’t lift that weight for you right now, but give me a few years and I will try. What I want you to think about is this: you never give up. I have never seen you take a rest day. Maybe it’s time for a different lens — to shift from measuring failure to defining success. What does success mean to you, Dad? I fear my heart breaks each time I hear you defeated.

We do not give up, that’s a rule.

You set goals for yourself: support your family, start a business, cook good food, be a good son. You did those things despite systems stacked against you. I have seen men crumble under loneliness and money. I have seen the small moments you create — the laughs Tae texts me about — and they mean everything.

I’ve seen more of the world than you, and I’ve been inside many homes. What I’ve learned is that home can be made of small, steady things. I’ve lost most of my life chasing my “own family”, when I had one all along. We’re just a little far right now, but that’s okay. Sometimes that works better, in largely inexplicable ways.

So here is the most important, simplest thing I want to say: the world has shamed you for existing, but I will not add to that shame — not today, not ever. I am eternally honored and grateful to be your daughter. In this life and the next, in my story, you will always be my hero. Don’t give up yet. And for once — listen to me when I ask you not to drink tonight. Let the feelings come.

Free yourself from the pain and see what’s on the other side.

Love,

Suki — “The Only Person You Are Scared Of” (: