Things I Never Say Out Loud (But Probably Should)

Dear Dad,

I’m not sure how to begin, and I think that’s important. If I knew exactly what I wanted to say, maybe I would have already said it out loud, like most people do.

But I never do. I make jokes. I avoid the topic. I act like we’re not the kind of people who talk about feelings. So I’m taking a shortcut by writing this instead. I keep thinking there’s a perfect way to say thank you, like if I wait long enough, the right words will come.

But the truth is, it’s more than just one sentence. It’s more than words that fit perfectly. I don’t want to keep it inside just because it’s hard to say. I’m really grateful to you. I know that probably sounds obvious.

Of course I am.

But I mean it in a deeper, quieter way that you only notice as you get older, when you realize how much stayed together because someone was holding it all up. Someone was holding you up. You were always there, even when I didn’t see it. Even when I thought I didn’t need you. Even when I was difficult, distant, dramatic, or sure I knew better. You were just there, steady like gravity. Not making a fuss, just always there.

Sometimes I remember things you probably forgot. Small, everyday moments that didn’t seem important then. Now they come back to me and I realize they mattered. They stuck with me. They became part of who I am. I didn’t see how much you carried back then. I really didn’t. I didn’t notice the worry, the pressure, or the choices that probably kept you up at night.

You made it all seem manageable. Like everything was fine. Like you were fine. Only now do I see how much work that took. I wish I had thanked you more when I could, instead of thinking there would always be time. We didn’t always agree. Sometimes I thought you didn’t get me at all.

Sometimes I was sure you were being unfair, stubborn, or impossible. Sometimes you really were. But even then, you were trying to teach me something: how to stand on my own, how to take responsibility, and how to get through disappointment without letting it make me bitter.

I didn’t appreciate it then.

I do now.

More than I can really explain. I hear your voice in my head all the time, especially when I’m about to do something questionable or when I’m trying to figure out the right thing to do and I’m not sure I trust myself yet. Your voice is always there.

It’s both annoying and comforting, and probably the best proof that you did something right. Some of my best qualities come from you. I don’t always love admitting that, but it’s true. The strength, the stubbornness, the way I keep going even when I’m scared or tired or overwhelmed, and the humor that shows up when things get tough—all of that comes from you. I don’t say “I love you” enough.

It’s not that I don’t feel it, but it feels big and awkward. Saying it out loud feels like it might open something I can’t close again. But I hope you feel it anyway—in the way I talk about you, in the way I still look for you when something matters, and in the way I carry what you taught me without even thinking about it.

I guess what I’m trying to say, even if it’s not perfect, is this: I’m thankful for you. Deeply. More than I’ve ever really said. I’m better because of you. Stronger. Steadier. Less lost. If this letter makes you uncomfortable, I’m sorry. But maybe that just means I finally said something I should have said a long time ago.

So yeah.

I love you.