What We Carry

I still find my father in places I don't expect.

Sometimes it's when I'm fixing something around the house and suddenly realize I know exactly what to do. I don't remember him ever sitting me down to teach me those things. Yet somehow, that little boy who followed him from one home improvement project to the next learned far more than either of us probably realized.

Sometimes it's on a motorcycle.

My father passed away from cancer in 2020. I still ride his motorcycle. There are moments on long rides when I catch myself wishing he were just ahead of me so I could follow him one more time.

Sometimes it's at a pool table.

Sometimes it's at the gun range shooting firearms that once belonged to him.

For years, I thought my father had passed down a love for motorcycles, pool, and working with my hands.

Looking back, I think he passed down something much greater.

He passed down pieces of himself.

The older I get, the more I realize I inherited pieces of both of my parents.

Some are gifts I've tried to preserve.

Others are burdens I've spent years trying to understand, challenge, and reshape.

My father's work ethic.

My mother's criticism.

His quiet confidence.

Her self-doubt.

His steady presence.

Her relentless drive to prove herself.

I carry all of them.

The truth is, all of us do.

Whether we realize it or not, we are walking through life carrying pieces of the people who raised us. Not only their eye color or smile, but their ways of loving, solving problems, handling conflict, responding to failure, finding joy, and making sense of the world.

Children don't simply inherit genetics.

They also inherit experiences.

Not literally.

Psychologically.

Thousands of ordinary moments.

A little boy following his father around while he builds a fence.

A teenager learning to play pool.

A ride on the back of a motorcycle.

A conversation after a hard day.

A parent who always makes time.

A parent who never seems to have any.

Children aren't keeping score.

They're making meaning.

One interaction at a time.

Those experiences become part of the story children tell themselves about who they are, what they can expect from others, and what they deserve.

As you've been reading this, you've probably started thinking about the people who raised you.

Maybe you've recognized gifts you still treasure.

Maybe you've recognized burdens you're still trying to lay down.

Most of us carry both.

That realization changed the way I think about my own daughters.

Recently, I find myself sitting around the table with my oldest daughter, smiling and laughing about the enthusiasm she has opening packs of Topps Disney Neon. She comes alive and excitedly shows us every card she pulls, even when it is clear she has no idea who the character is.

And then I realized something.

She isn't falling in love with trading cards.

She's falling in love with being with her dad.

Maybe one day she'll genuinely love collecting cards.

Maybe she won't.

The cards aren't the point.

Just as fences weren't the point.

Or pool.

Or motorcycles.

Those were simply the places where I found my father.

One day, my daughters will find me too.

Maybe while opening a pack of cards.

Maybe while changing the oil in their motorcycle.

Maybe while reading a bedtime story to their own children.

Maybe in ways I can't possibly imagine.

I won't always be there.

But parts of me will be.

Just as parts of my father still are.

The question is no longer whether they'll carry pieces of me.

They will.

The real question is this:

What do I want them to carry?