In the first two pieces of this series, I wrote about the early postpartum weeks and the systems that shape those first days after birth and the community that stepped in to help carry me through them. But becoming a mother didn’t just make me think about recovery, support, or survival. It also brought me back to the person who shaped me long before this chapter began. As I navigate these early months of motherhood, I find myself thinking about my dad more than ever, and the lessons he gave me that I’m now trying to pass on. This next part of the journey is a little different, but it’s just as much a part of postpartum: realizing how deeply our own parents live within the way we care for our children.

It’s been two years since you passed, Dad. Two years that feel impossibly long and shockingly short at the same time. The world has changed so much; I’m not sure you’d recognize it anymore. And yet, even as everything shifts, I still carry you with me. In quiet moments, in big decisions, and especially now, in the way I love.

Becoming a mother has brought you back into my life in ways I didn’t expect.

I think of you constantly now that I have a baby. I wish you could meet her, hold her, watch her grow into the little person she’s becoming. I hate that I didn’t have her earlier so you could have known her. But I tell her about you every day. Your stories, your patience, your gentle guidance—they’re all part of the life I’m building for her.

In many ways, becoming a parent has made me understand you more.

I know you would have been so happy that I had a daughter. You always said, “Girls are the best because boys leave, but girls stay and take care of their parents.” I hope she grows up knowing how loved she is, and I hope she carries a little of the warmth and wisdom you gave me.

I think about how our weekends and holidays used to start. You would ask me and my brother, “What’s your plan today?” It was such a simple question, but it pushed us to think about the day ahead, to be curious, to take initiative. Not in a forceful way but more so a quiet encouragement that made us feel like anything was possible.

Now I catch myself thinking about how I can give my daughter that same feeling as she grows up.

I remember our family vacations too, especially the trip to Bournemouth in England. I can still feel the warm sun on my skin and the rough grains of sand between my fingers as we built castles and dug moats for hours. The salty smell of the ocean. The excitement of wandering through little seaside shops. That summer, when I dressed up as a nurse, pretending to take care of everyone.

Those ordinary moments were magical because you were there laughing, encouraging, making everything feel special.

I want my daughter to feel that same sense of wonder and safety in the world.

Even when I thought I’d pulled a fast one on you going out to parties and drinking—you always knew. I remember you saying, “I know what you’ve been doing, but I’ll turn a blind eye because you’re meant to be figuring this out at your age.” That combination of awareness, trust, and patience is something I think about a lot now as a parent.

It showed me that love can guide without controlling.

I find myself drawing on that more than ever. Parenting a newborn requires so much patience, so much calm, and I often think about how you handled us with steadiness and quiet confidence.

I’m grateful you didn’t have to see what happened to USAID. I know it was your dream to see my career flourish there, and seeing it dismantled would have broken your heart. Even so, I feel your pride in me, and I hope you can sense how I’ve tried to honor your faith in everything I do.

Already, I find myself thinking about her future—schools, opportunities, ways to help her grow into her best self. I’m giving her the same love and patience you gave me. When she cries or fusses, I remember how patient you were with me, and I try to pass that on.

I tell her she’s smart first, not just cute, and hope she grows up knowing she’s capable of more than the world often expects.

A lot of parenting, I’m realizing, is remembering.

Remembering what was given to you.
Remembering what mattered.
And deciding what you want to carry forward.

I borrow from you the quiet strength you had, your calm guidance, the way you led with love without ever needing recognition. A part of you lives on in her, in me, and in all the small, ordinary ways that shape a life.

I miss you more than words can hold. But I carry you in every decision, every hug, every little moment of this new life.

Two years later, Dad, I’m still learning, still loving, still trying to make you proud. And even though you’re gone, you are here in every heartbeat, every lesson, every memory, every plan for the future.

And now, as I watch my daughter grow, I realize something else.

Parenthood doesn’t just teach us how to care for our children.
It reminds us of the care that shaped us.

And through her—in her laughter, in her curiosity, in the love I give her—you live on.