My dad lost his battle with cancer the other day. He had lived with cancer and a whole host of other illnesses for 20 years, and having seen his medical history, I honestly don’t know how he made it to the grand old age of 91. He was an absolute fighter, and I don’t think I’ll ever fully understand just how much he endured over those years. In the end, he was in so much pain, and I think one of the hardest things for him was losing his independence. The bone cancer had spread to most of his spine, leaving his legs unable to work and taking away so much of the freedom he had always cherished. Until his 91st birthday in July, he had religiously gone to the gym every morning. Although I suspect he spent more time exercising his jaw muscles than any others in his body, the gym was so much more than a place to work out. It was his extended family, his routine, his social life, and one of the things that kept him going. When that was taken away, and he increasingly needed me to help him with almost everything, I could see that some of his spark had faded. But it never completely disappeared. That was my dad. Even when life took so much from him, there was still a part of him that refused to give in.

I love my dad so much. Not because he was a perfect father, because none of us are perfect, but because of the lessons he taught me, many of which I was too stubborn, too immature, or too caught up in my own world to understand at the time. He taught me that no matter what life throws at you, no matter how difficult things become or how much pain you’re carrying, you should always try to keep a smile on your face, gratitude in your heart, and love for the people around you. He showed me that even when everything feels like it’s falling apart, there is still room to laugh, to find joy in the smallest things, and to appreciate what we do have rather than constantly focusing on what we don’t. I’ve come to realise that finding humour in even the darkest moments isn’t about pretending that life doesn’t hurt. It’s about finding a little light when everything feels dark. And Dad, you were an absolute master at that. You were one of the strongest, most loving, most caring, and funniest people I have ever known, and I feel incredibly lucky that I got to call you my dad.

For much of my life, though, I couldn’t see all of this clearly. I was blinded by my own ego, my resentment, and my reliance on alcohol and other mind-altering substances to escape from life and the feelings I didn’t know how to deal with. I spent much of my teenage years rebelling, convinced that I knew better and that Dad was wrong about so many things. Looking back now, I’m deeply sorry for the pain and worry I put him through. I wish I could go back and give that younger version of myself a little of the understanding I have today. I wish I could tell him to listen more, argue less, and recognise the love that was right in front of him. But addiction has a way of distorting your perspective, making you believe that you know what you’re doing when, in reality, you’re hurting yourself and often the people who love you most. For a long time, I couldn’t see just how much Dad was doing for me, or just how unconditional his love really was.

Because when I look back at everything, one thing stands out above all else: Dad was always there. Whatever I had done, however much trouble I had got myself into, and however many times I had made life difficult for him, he was there to pick me up from the police station, help me clean up the mess, get me out of trouble, and somehow find a way forward. Of course, he got angry and upset, and he had every right to be. But those feelings never seemed to last as long as his love. He would eventually move on, forgive me, and carry on being my dad, often with that familiar smile on his face. I don’t think I appreciated the enormity of that love at the time. I took it for granted because, in my mind, Dad would always be there. Now that he’s gone, I understand just how precious that was. He kept showing up for me, even during the times when I struggled to show up for myself.

My journey through alcoholism and recovery has made me look at so much of my life differently. It has forced me to confront things I once tried to run away from, to recognise the hurt I caused, and to understand that I cannot change the past, no matter how much I might wish I could. But I can choose what I do with the lessons it has taught me. And as I grieve for Dad, I find myself thinking about the kind of person he was and the kind of person I want to become. Recovery, for me, is about more than putting alcohol behind me. It’s about learning to live honestly, to be present, to appreciate the people I love while I still have them, and to face life as it comes rather than trying to escape it. It’s about learning to find happiness in the ordinary moments, to laugh when I can, to be grateful for what I have, and to keep going when things get hard. In so many ways, those are the very lessons Dad had been trying to teach me all along. I wish I could tell him how much more I understand now. I wish I could thank him for never giving up on me. And I wish he could see that, even though I still have plenty to learn, his example is helping me find my way.

I miss my dad more than words can ever explain. His absence has left a massive hole in my life, and I know that void will never be completely filled. There will be moments when I reach for the phone to tell him something, moments when I want his advice, and moments when I would give anything just to sit with him, have a chat, hear his laugh, and see that smile one more time. I know there will be difficult days ahead, and I’m not going to pretend that grief is something I can simply smile my way through. There will be tears, there will be sadness, and there will be times when the reality of losing him hits me all over again. But I also know that Dad wouldn’t want me to stop living. He would want me to keep going, to keep laughing, to keep loving, and to make the most of the time I have left. So that is what I’m going to try to do. I’ll keep working on my recovery, keep learning, keep growing, and keep trying to become a better man, not out of guilt for the past, but out of gratitude for the father who helped shape the person I am today.

Dad, thank you for everything. Thank you for your patience, your forgiveness, your strength, your kindness, your sense of humour, and for loving me even when I made it difficult. Thank you for being there when I needed you, even when I didn’t realise how much I needed you. I’m sorry for the times I caused you pain, and I hope you knew, especially towards the end, just how much I loved you. I hope that, in some way, I made you proud. I know I can’t change the past, and I can’t have one more conversation with you to say all the things I wish I’d said, but I can carry your lessons with me for the rest of my life. When recovery gets difficult, I’ll remember your resilience. When life feels overwhelming, I’ll remember your smile. When I’m tempted to forget how lucky I am, I’ll remember your gratitude. And when I have the chance to show someone a little kindness, offer forgiveness, or help someone who is struggling, I’ll remember the way you always showed up for me.

I love you, Dad, more than I could ever put into words. I’m heartbroken that you’re no longer here, but I’m so grateful that you were. You may be gone, but the love you gave me, the lessons you taught me, and the memories we shared will stay with me forever. I can’t promise that I’ll always get things right, but I can promise that I’ll keep trying, keep learning, and keep doing my best to live a life you would be proud of. And I’ll do my best to carry that smile of yours with me, even on the hardest days.

Rest peacefully, Dad. Thank you for being my dad. I love you, and I always will. ❤️

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The Way You Left Within Me

You lived for ninety-one years, Dad,
and your strength was never measured,
by the weight you lifted,
but by the burdens you carried,
and the smile you wore along the way.

Even when your body surrendered,
when pain took your freedom,
and the road grew dark,
something in you remained.
A quiet light that suffering,
could never fully extinguish.

I was young, and I could not see you.
I mistook rebellion for freedom,
alcohol for escape,
and my own stubbornness for wisdom.
Yet through every mistake,
every fall, every broken promise,
you were there.

You never needed to be perfect.
You only needed to be my dad.
And even when I made it difficult,
your love kept finding its way back to me.

Now, through recovery,
I am learning what you knew all along:
that strength is not running from pain,
but finding the courage to face it;
that happiness is not a life without sorrow,
but the ability to find light within it.

Like water finding its way around stone,
I will keep moving forward,
not perfectly, but honestly,
one day at a time.

I cannot change the past,
nor ask the river to flow backwards.
But I can carry your lessons forward,
turn my regrets into understanding,
and let the love you gave me,
become the love I give to others.

I miss you, Dad.
I wish I had understood sooner.
I wish there were more mornings,
more conversations,
one more chance to hear your laugh.

But perhaps love never truly leaves.
Perhaps it simply changes its shape:
from a hand we hold,
to a wisdom we carry;
from a voice beside us,
to a light within us.

So I will keep going.
I will keep recovering,
keep finding reasons to laugh,
keep choosing kindness over anger,
and gratitude over regret.

And when life becomes difficult,
I will remember your smile,
and find the courage to wear my own.

I love you, Dad.

Your journey has ended,
but what you planted in me,
is still growing.

And wherever my road leads,
a part of you,
will always walk beside me. ❤️