The Practice That Changed Everything
So yesterday, I woke up feeling restless. Saw Louie Hamilton trending online – kid’s been talking about his dad, you know, THE famous driver. Everyone’s dissecting his words like it’s gospel. Got me thinking… what if I really dove deep into my own messy feelings about my dad? Like, actually sat down and processed it. All of it. Not just the Instagram-filtered bits.
Grabbed my beat-up notebook – the one with coffee stains and bent corners. Started scribbling. Not pretty sentences, just raw stuff. Wrote down every stupid argument, every time he missed my school play ‘cause of work, that dumb fishing trip where we both sat in silence for hours. Even the good stuff hurt to write – like him teaching me to ride a bike, hands steady on my shoulders until he let go. Felt like puking, honestly.
Then came the hard part: digging out old photos. Found this one vacation snapshot – him looking tired, me sulking ’cause he took a work call. Stared at it for ages. Saw things I never noticed before: the wrinkles near his eyes, how his smile didn’t reach ‘em that day. Felt… weirdly heavy. Started labeling the back of each photo with what I really remembered, not the fake “happy family” version.
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Things That Made Me Stop Writing:
- The way he’d clear his throat when nervous – did I inherit THAT too?
- Finding his hidden whiskey bottle after grandma died. Never told mom.
- Him calling me “champ” only when he was drunk enough.
One midnight thing though… I sneaked into his old study (he’s been gone 5 years). Dusty trophy case, faded leather smell. Found a journal tucked behind his golf trophies. Not some epic memoir – just boring work notes, dentist appointments… and a single entry about teaching me baseball. Said he was “terrified of screwing it up.” He wrote that. Him. My hands shook holding that cheap notebook. Realized maybe he was winging it too.
Finished around 3 AM. My notebook looked like a war zone – crossed-out sentences, tear smudges, coffee rings. Didn’t magically fix anything. Dad’s still complicated. But something shifted. Carrying that weight felt different… lighter somehow, like naming the beast took a tooth out. Maybe Louie’s onto something. Facing the damn details, even when they suck? That’s the real work. Done for now. Gotta reheat last night’s pizza.
