A Letter to My Father,

I see you slipping. I feel the quiet between your words, the fog in your eyes when you forget something I just said, the resistance in your voice when you don’t want to be helped. You say you’re okay—but I see what your soul might not want to admit. And I’m scared as hell.

I am so scared of losing you too.

There was a time I longed for your trust, your belief in me, your pride. And even now, as your mind begins to wander, I still search for it in your face. That maybe now you’ll see who I’ve become. That maybe now you’ll say, “You’re right, I trust you, I believe in your knowing.”

But maybe you never will. And that has to be okay. Because I am no longer the little girl asking to be chosen. I am a woman who sees the truth clearly—even when others cannot.

I know what I know. I love how I love. I speak to babies, dogs, and plants not because I’m detached from reality, but because I honor it in all its forms. That is not madness—that is sacredness.

So today, I release what isn’t mine to fix.I hold your hand, but I don’t carry your denial.I witness your decline, but I protect my peace. And I let God take what I cannot control.

You will always be my father.

But I am becoming my own parent now.

And I will be the one who believes in me—even if you never did.

With love, with grief, with grace,

Your daughter

Your mirror

Your healer