I don’t often speak about my father, but today, I feel led to share a little piece of our story. His name was Michael, though everyone who knew him simply called him Mike. If I could describe him in three words, it would be energetic, improvising, and loud—but in the best, most joyful way. He wasn’t a perfect man—none of us are—but now that I’m older and a parent myself, I realize he was something far more important: he was a trying man. He tried, he stumbled, he grew. And I honor that. Lately, I find myself reflecting not just on my own upbringing, but also on the environment my parents were raised in. My father and mother were born in the 1950s and 60s—a time of deep societal upheaval and change. They came from a generation that was taught to “sweep things under the rug and move on.” If their parents struggled with addiction or emotional unavailability, they endured it without therapy or open discussions. Many of their parents worked tirelessly, often at the expense of emotional nurturing.

Understanding this has given me a deep compassion for them. They didn’t have perfect examples of parenting, but they were trying; doing their best with what they knew. And for that, I am forever grateful. If I could go back in time, I would tell my dad how proud I was of him—proud of the way he fought to change, to grow, and to be a better man and father.

Many don’t know the depths of my relationship with my father, but if you’ve read Trusting God in the Storm, then you understand the layers of our story. One fateful and tragic day—April 23, 2007—changed everything. My father was brutally beaten, robbed, and left for dead. When I saw him in the ICU, he was unrecognizable, connected to machines keeping him alive. Doctors repeatedly advised us to remove life support, telling us he would have no quality of life, that he would be a “vegetable.” As a teenager, I struggled to grasp what this meant for my brother and me. Days turned into weeks, and months later—on the day before Father’s Day in June 2007—he woke up. The first words he said when he saw me were, “That’s my daughter, my baby girl.” Despite his extensive brain damage, he never forgot what he had created.

It was the beginning of a hard, beautiful journey.

My father had to relearn everything—walking, talking, controlling his emotions. He woke up angry, hurt by what life had dealt him, and as a family, we had to navigate that pain together. But one thing I promised him: I would never leave his side. I would stay, love him, and help him fight to live again. Ironically, the brain injury also gave us a fresh start. My father no longer remembered all the mistakes he had made when I was a child—the absences, the broken promises. We were able to build a new relationship, one without the burdens of the past. Even when I left for the Army, I made sure to write to him, to check on him. I wanted so badly to have a true father-daughter bond. I wanted long talks, advice, and to hear him say, “I love you, baby girl.” I craved his validation in ways he didn’t always know how to give—but God, in His mysterious ways, answered my prayers.

After my deployment in 2014, my father came to live with my children and me. It was one of the happiest seasons of my life. He cooked, cleaned, helped with the kids, and made us laugh every single day. We got tattoos together, went out to dinner, celebrated Christmas as a family. My sons had their “Papa Mike,” and I had my dad. When it was time for him to return home to Athens, I didn’t want to let him go. I wanted to continue being his “drill sergeant,” as he affectionately called me. I knew he struggled with self-control and staying on the right path after his injury. But I had to let him go—to fly, to figure it out. I never imagined that just two years later, after all the rebuilding and bonding, he would pass away so suddenly. His death shattered me. I questioned God: Why would You allow me to get so close, only to lose him? I still don’t have all the answers. But I trust that he’s now at peace. 

That season with my father taught me something profound about fatherhood. Children—both boys and girls—need their fathers. Fathers are vital. They are the first example of protection, love, and identity. The absence of that protection growing up left me with abandonment wounds and an anxious attachment style—a constant fear of being left behind. Because of this, I make it a priority never to interfere with my children’s relationship with their father, even after divorce. I encourage their bond because fathers matter deeply. The point of this blog is to encourage you: if you still have your parents, no matter how imperfect they may be, seek relationship. Give grace. Try to understand the wounds they carry from their own upbringings. Parenting is one of the hardest jobs anyone can do, and most of us are just trying our best. Honor your mother and father. Appreciate the sacrifices they made—the ones you saw and the ones you didn’t. Even if the situation doesn’t allow for a healthy relationship, pray for them. God can do the impossible.

To my father:

I love you, Pops.

I miss you more than words can say.

I forgive you for all you couldn’t do, and I love you even more for trying to make it right.

There will always be a place for you in my heart.

Tell Grandma I said hello.

See you on the other side.

Love always,

Shell, your baby girl.