It’s hard to believe, but another anniversary of my dad’s passing is coming up. Every year when this date rolls around, I find myself reflecting on our relationship — and somehow, each year I see him a little differently.

Recently, one realization stopped me in my tracks: I was 52 years old before I clearly remember feeling compassion from my dad.

Now, I’m not saying it was the first time he showed compassion — just the first time I truly felt it. And sometimes, feeling it is what matters most.

Growing up, my dad was larger than life. Tough. No-nonsense. Extremely competitive. He was respected in business, well known in the horse world, endlessly social, generous with friends, and almost always carrying the weight of responsibility. Hard work wasn’t optional in his world — you gave 100%, period — and he expected that same standard from his family.

Truthfully, that work ethic shaped me in good ways. I’m proud of it. Larry and I passed that value on to our kids too. But I’ve also learned something since becoming a parent and now a grandparent: sometimes kids just need permission to be kids without feeling the pressure to always perform.

And that’s one of those things time helps you understand.

I never doubted my dad loved me. Not once. But our love languages were very different — especially back then when nobody was talking about love languages yet.

His seemed rooted in acts of service and gift-giving. Mine? Well… mine wander. Quality time. Physical touch. Acts of service. Words of affirmation when life feels heavy. And yes, I’ll happily accept a thoughtful gift too. Add Multiple Sclerosis into the mix, and sometimes what I need shifts depending on the season I’m in — physically or emotionally. Poor Larry deserves a medal for trying to keep up.

Now that our kids are grown and building lives of their own — careers, families, responsibilities — I see my parents with softer eyes. Parenting in the trenches is messy and beautiful all at once. There’s no perfect manual. We’re all just doing the best we can with what we know at the time.

My parents’ divorce was tough. Ugly at times. My brothers and I often felt caught in the middle, loving both parents and sometimes feeling like that love forced impossible choices. I think many families experience some version of that tension, even without divorce. Kids feel more than we realize, and those emotional undercurrents can stick around longer than anyone intends.

Eventually, my dad found happiness again with our stepmom. He often said she saved his life, especially after the divorce when alcoholism had its strongest hold on him. By the time he passed, he had been sober for over 35 years — something I will always admire. That kind of determination takes grit, humility, and courage.

During the last five years of his life, when his health began declining, I spent more time with him in Colorado. Those years changed everything. We talked honestly — about my childhood, regrets, pride, love, misunderstandings. Conversations we probably should have had years earlier, but maybe we just weren’t ready yet.

I learned something unexpected: much of what I interpreted growing up as emotional distance was actually self-protection. Detaching was his coping mechanism when life overwhelmed him. Seeing that shifted something in my heart. The tough guy wasn’t unfeeling — he was protecting himself.

Those final years gave us space to redefine our relationship. I found forgiveness I didn’t realize I still needed. He shared pride and affection more openly than he ever had before. Healing showed up quietly, but it showed up.

And I’m so grateful it did

Living with MS has taught me many things, but one of the biggest is this:
Time is precious, and emotional energy is too.
Carrying old hurt gets heavy. When healing becomes possible — even imperfectly — it can feel like setting down a weight you forgot you were carrying.

If there’s one thing I hope someone reading this takes away, it’s this:

👉 It’s rarely too late for healing.
👉 Compassion sometimes arrives later than expected.
👉 Reflection can open doors you didn’t know were still closed.

And if reflection feels overwhelming?

Come into the kitchen.

Some of the best conversations — and sometimes the deepest healing — happen around the kitchen table. When life feels reflective or a little tender, I almost always find myself baking. These oatmeal raisin cookies are one of those recipes that feel like comfort in edible form: warm cinnamon, chewy oats, and just enough sweetness to soften the edges of the day. They’re simple, nostalgic, and perfect for sharing… which, if you ask me, is where the real magic happens. And honestly? Life just feels a little softer with something homemade in your hands.