An Open Letter to My Dad on His 74th Birthday
Kouk—
Bianca ran over to me the other night with my membership card from The Valley Athletic Club. This is a card I don’t remember. I certainly hadn’t seen it in at least twenty years.
On it, I grinned, gap-toothed, with my chin pointing up—as if the person taking the photo was much taller than me. They probably were.
On the back, in your beautiful cursive, was your “Authorized Signature.” Douglas Strong, that underlined script declared.
For the past almost eleven years since you’ve been gone, I’ve missed that part of us—my status as your child and yours as the person who was authorized to guard me. I’ve often felt…adrift, searching. So, I committed to doing the work to find myself, to authorize my own damn self to be my guard. Sure, mom is still here and she is doing a pretty fantastic job, but I’m a grown-ass adult now with a family of my own. It was time to figure out how to guard myself—to an extent, you know?
I’ve cried, I’ve felt big feelings, I’ve wailed in my car, beating the steering wheel with my clenched fists after a Moon Goddess fair up the street full of psychics, tarot readers, and shapeople revealed over and over again that I was still adrift and searching while also getting closer to whatever I was searching for. Connection to you? Connection to me? Both?
I got another therapist, read a lot of books, expanded my community, cut off unhealthy relationships, spoke my truths, held myself accountable, congregated, isolated, and asked for help. I pushed myself through the discomfort. Every morning, I put my hand over my own heart to feel it beat and breathe.
And in the past year, it all kind of clicked. I no longer feel like half an orphan.
I feel pretty fully fucking realized.
Sure, I have my moments. I miss you a lot and all the time. But it’s different now.
I’m no longer looking outside of myself for guidance and care. I know I have everything I need inside of me. I know I can talk to you—out loud—and ask for eagles. I know you’re always with me, authorized to guard, and I’ve given myself permission to put my hand on my heart, take big deep breaths, and protect my own heart while simultaneously watching it split wide open.
Every time Oliver walks to his classroom in the morning and his too-big backpack bops against the top of his butt, on a clear and direct mission, it swells.
Every time Bianca snuggles into my lap in the morning, her wild hair strewn across the side of my cheek, I feel it in my chest.
Every time Raz feeds me a spoon of something delicious he’s made, it beats harder.
And every time I see an eagle soar above me, I feel it in my throat.
I will always miss you and wish that you still lived in a body here on earth, but I’m realizing that not only do I do a great job guarding myself, but also that your authorized signature exists always…everywhere.
Anyway, happy birthday. Thank you for continuing to show up.
I love you,
Whit
P.S. 74 is super old. I can hardly imagine you that old? Obviously I don’t have to (sorry, dark), but wow. Anyway, see you in the skies!
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