Five Lessons From My Late Father

It’s a photo I love: me dancing with my father. Whenever I see it, I hear Luther Vandross in my head—“one final dance with him, a song that never ends.” The lyrics hold so much of what grief feels like: love distilled into a wish for just one more moment.

Why is it that after someone is gone, our hearts ache for a single extra minute—a final glance, step, dance? Maybe because time is the great editor. It trims what didn’t matter and leaves only what did. If we knew how much we’d miss the ordinary, we’d savor it more while it’s here.

I spent most of the last seven years helping my dad through his final, hard days. He died on August 24 at age 95, after a full life and a long goodbye. That season changed me. It also reminded me of the first gift he ever gave me: the water.

Five Lessons My Father Taught Me (in a Lake)

I learned to swim in a gentle Virginia lake. My dad would wade out and call, “Swim to Daddy.” I’d dog-paddle toward him, and he’d step back—four feet, then eight. By the time he caught me, we’d look back at the shore and realize how far I’d come.

That simple game became a life blueprint. Here are the five lessons I carry forward:

1. Courage over comfort. Courage isn’t the absence of fear; it’s moving through it. I was in deeper water than I liked, but I kept going—and discovered a farther shore.
   
   
2. Independence with trust. My dad stepping back wasn’t abandonment; it was a handoff. He taught me to trust myself while knowing someone steady was still there. Most good things in life take both.
   
   
3. Health is a generational gift. In our family, movement was normal—my grandfather swam laps on lunch breaks. My dad kept that language alive for decades: How’s your swimming? What meet is next? Caring for your body is a love letter to your future and to the people who love you.
   
   
4. Keep the play. We splashed, canoed, and I learned to dive off his shoulders—equal parts laughter and learning. Even at the end of his life, my dad would say he endured with courage, suffered with dignity, and prevailed with a sense of laughter. Joy isn’t naïve; it’s ballast.
   
   
5. You can go farther than you think. My dad never wanted the wheelchair or the bedbound years, but he met them with grit. He went farther than he thought he could. Usually, we can too.
   
   

If You’re Grieving (or Loving) Right Now

Grief has a way of clarifying our priorities. It asks a hard, beautiful question: What would you want one more of? A walk? A story? A shared song in the kitchen?

If someone you love is still here, take the “one more” now:

• Make the call. Ask the question. Hit record on a five-minute story.
  
  
• Plan a small ritual: a weekly walk, a standing coffee, a song you always finish together.
  
  
• Say the quiet thing out loud: You matter to me.
  
  

If your person is gone, create a way to keep dancing:

• Cook their recipe. Swim their laps. Tell their joke.
  
  
• Write them a letter and read it at the table.
  
  
• Let their best lessons live through your next brave step.
  
  

Moving Forward

I talk through these lessons—and the month I stepped away from podcasting to grieve—in the most recent episode of Champion’s Mojo. It’s short, real, and, I hope, useful. My dad was the original swim lesson giver in my life. The most recent episode (EP 285, Five Swim and Life Lessons from My Late Father) is my way of passing those lessons on.

To everyone missing someone: I’m with you. To everyone lucky enough to have one more within reach: take it. The song doesn’t have to end to start dancing. And even when it does, the rhythm can keep living in us—stroke by stroke, step by step, story by story.

Dad, I love you. Thank you for teaching me to swim—and to go farther than I think. This one’s for you.