What I Learned from a Flawed Man
Every couple of months, I like to write something deeply personal. These aren’t just posts—they’re an exercise in vulnerability, a reminder of the power in embracing your chaos and finding hope in your journey. This one’s about my father.
My father and I didn’t have a bad relationship, but it wasn’t good either. It was…distant. He was a workaholic, an alcoholic, and a man who didn’t know how to show emotion—at least not in ways that made sense to me at the time. And yet, for all that, he’s left me with lessons I carry every day.
Some of those lessons were deliberate, others were unspoken. Some came from his best moments, and others came from his mistakes. And if I’m honest, there’s still so much I wish I’d taken the time to understand about him. He’s gone now, and that’s a regret I’ll carry with me forever.
His True North
My father believed in duty. That was his north star, his foundation. It didn’t matter if he was tired, angry, or just plain fed up—he did what he believed was right. Sometimes that meant helping people who didn’t deserve it. Sometimes it meant putting others ahead of himself, even when it cost him. And sometimes it meant unintentionally hurting those closest to him. But he never wavered. And watching him live steadfast, and at times flawed, taught me something I don’t think I could’ve learned any other way. Life will test you. It’ll throw chaos and doubt and heartbreak your way. But your foundation, your truth, is yours to protect. You stand by it, not because it’s easy, but because it’s who you are.
At What Point is There Too Much Generosity?
My father had a complicated relationship with money. He had a knack for making it, but it never meant much to him. Most of the fortune he earned was given away—to friends, to family, to anyone who needed help. He believed in sharing what he had, even if it meant struggling himself. One of my favorite memories of him is from Christmas. Every year, he’d transform our apartment complex into a holiday haven. He’d blocked off the parking lot, turn it into a neighborhood gathering, and handed out gifts to kids who didn’t know his name. Parents walked away with gift cards for groceries, and he made sure every family had all the school supplies they need for the coming year.
He didn’t do it for the thanks, honestly, most people didn’t even know who he was. He did it because he could. Because he believed in helping, even if no one saw it. Looking back, I think it was his way of creating the joy he never got to have for a majority of his life. He gave and gave, almost compulsively, because he didn’t know how else to connect. And for all his flaws—and trust me, there were plenty—I appreciate understanding that was how he showed love.
He Wasn’t Perfect. Far From It.
I won’t sugarcoat who my father was. He was angry, all the time. He drank too much; I’m talking a case of beer a day often. He yelled, and I mean really yelled, the kind of yelling that shakes walls and leaves you on edge for days. He fought with my mother constantly, and I can’t even count the number of times one of them disappeared for days after a blowout. To put it simply, he was angry, deeply hurt by a life that hadn’t been kind to him, and that anger spilled out onto the people closest to him. But now I understand why he was like that. I know he was taken advantage of by his own family both physically and mentally. He was emotionally abused by his ex-wife for years. I learned that he was carrying wounds long before I was born. I know that he was a man who was very sensitive and had a great fear in his heart. And while I can’t excuse his actions, I can understand them.
Thankfully in his moments of clarity, when the anger and the beer weren’t clouding everything, he was different. He was thoughtful, sensitive, even afraid. Afraid to lose what he’d built. Afraid of being taken advantage of again. I rarely saw that version of him, but when I did, it stuck with me.
Life’s Short.
Growing up, I wasn’t close to my family. My parents were always working, gone on trips for weeks at a time. My brothers, who were tasked with watching me, had their own lives to live. I grew up alone. I didn’t mind it, really—it’s just how things were. But when they were home, I didn’t feel the pull to be around them. By the time I was a teenager, I was content doing my own thing.
Then one day after what felt like days of screaming at each other, I told him, “I never asked to have everything. I never asked to be spoiled. That was a choice you made. None of that makes me happy.”
And that broke him.
I still remember the look on his face. It was the first time I’d seen him cry—really cry. For the first time, the stoic man I’d grown up with cracked, and I saw his vulnerability. It hurt him deeply…I hurt him.
That moment, everything shifted. I understood that he couldn’t control it, that for as strong as I thought he was, he needed help. From then on, I made the effort. I went to work with him, joined him for meals, spent what felt like days at home depot, woke up early just to see him before he left for the day. I put in the energy he couldn’t, because I knew I had the strength to do it; and I knew that is what he wanted but couldn’t give. But…. then he got sick.
I saw him get weaker and weaker barely able to be coherent anymore. His memory cloudy, and the cancer taking what little individuality he had left. I did know of one thing he wished for more than anything, and that was for me to graduate college; I would be the first in my family. Luckily, he lived long enough to see it happen. He was too weak to walk, barely able to stand, but he made it to my ceremony. A few weeks later he passed away, with one of his last actions being to hug me and hold my newborn son. Which may seem small, but he had never held a baby in his life terrified he would hurt them.
The New Normal
When someone you love dies, the grief doesn’t go away. It just becomes part of your new normal. My father wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t always kind or easy to love. But he was mine. And the life I’m building now, the values I hold, the way I move through the world—it’s all shaped by him, in one way or another.
The greatest lesson I learned because of him is this: intention matters. You forge your own path. You choose what your life will look like, what values you’ll hold, and what kind of person you’ll be. For me, that means living with purpose. Whether it’s in work, relationships, or family, I move through life with intention, knowing that my actions reflect who I am and what I stand for.
I hope this inspires you to take a step, even a small one, toward healing. It’s not easy, and it’s not quick, but it’s worth it. Because when it’s all said and done, the people we love—flaws and all—are what make life meaningful. This one was hard to write, but I’m glad I did. Sharing this doesn’t just honor my father; it’s a reminder to myself and, I hope, to you, that vulnerability is strength.
