40 and 82
This week’s newsletter is personal. Regular content returns next week.
It’s been a month since I lost my dad.
I’ve been processing. Some days are harder than others. I’ve learned that grief doesn’t follow a schedule.
But I wanted to share what’s been on my mind.
The guilt.
When you lose someone, you don’t just grieve. You reflect.
I thought about the things I could have done better as a son. The calls I didn’t make. The visits I cut short. The words I didn’t say.
The frustration I showed when I could have shown patience.
You carry that.
I turned 40 last year. My dad was 82 when he passed last month.
That math hits different now.
The cleanup.
My dad was a collector. Some might say a hoarder.
Sweatshirts he never wore. 49er gear from 30+ years of fan loyalty. Fishing gear from decades of trips. Old photos. Paperwork from school and his career that I should have asked more about.
It was littered across every room.
We spent weeks sorting through it all. Folding. Packing. Deciding what to keep, what to donate, what to let go.
When we finished, the house felt empty.
I kept one thing. The watch he was wearing when he passed.
A life well lived.
But here’s what I keep coming back to.
When you reflect on someone’s life, it’s never the big things you remember. It’s the small ones.
My dad wasn’t a man of many words. He didn’t give long speeches. He rarely said “I love you.”
But he showed it.
He showed up. Every time.
He drove us to school. He took us to sports practices, trips to Pismo Beach. He worked overtime so we didn’t have to worry. He fixed things around the house without being asked. He sat with us even when there was nothing to say.
That was his language. Actions, not words.
The exception.
With his granddaughter Zoe, something shifted.
Every time they said hello — “Love you, Zoe.”
Every time they said goodbye — “Love you, Zoe.”
Every single time.
He never said it to us like that. But he said it to her. Maybe grandchildren unlock something. Maybe he was making up for lost time. Maybe he just couldn’t help himself.
I don’t know. But I’m grateful Zoe got to hear it.
What actually matters.
As much as we stress about work — the politics, the missed promotions, the deals that didn’t close — none of it matters in the entirety of a life.
People remember how you made them feel.
The energy you brought.
The love you shared.
The meals together. The trips. The showing up.
That’s what lasts.
What I want to pass on.
People tell me I look like my dad. The mannerisms. The personality. Even the face.
I used to shrug it off. Now I take it as a compliment.
Because here’s what he taught me without ever saying it:
Provide for your family.
Show up when it matters.
Be humble. Help others. Work hard.
You don’t necessarily have to say “I love you” if you live it every day.
That’s what I want to pass on to Zoe.
Not the titles. Not the achievements. Not the things.
The presence. The consistency. The quiet love.
Moving forward.
I’m comforted knowing he went peacefully in his sleep. No suffering. No long decline.
He was here. And then he wasn’t.
That’s a gift, even if it doesn’t feel like one.
He lived a good life. He was loved by many.
And now it’s on me to carry it forward.
Thanks for giving me space to share this.
Miss you, Dad.
— Kevin