If you would have told me ten years ago that my dad and I would one day have the meaningful and honest conversations that we now do—and on a fairly regular basis—I would not have believed you.

In fact, younger me might have gotten a little angry to learn that I would one day betray the resentment that had come to define my relationship with him. You see, for many years, my dad only knew the most distant, protected and closed-off version of me. And I thought that he deserved it.

While this was a very painful way to be in relationship with him, it was a safe one.

And yet, here I am. Returning from a visit to my parents’ home in California, wanting to share a nugget of my dad's wisdom with you.

(Needless to say, I definitely would not have believed years ago, that my dad would become a primary source of wisdom and comfort in my life.)

A few days ago, as he sat in his favorite chair and I sat across from him on the sofa, my dad told me that the reason he collects toy cars, is that he didn’t have any toys of his own when he was little.

He added that he didn’t really know before why he liked these toy cars so much. He just collected them. But that he now realizes that whether we know it or not, we are all just trying to get what we didn’t have when we were little.

In that moment, I chose to simply be with this information. But what I was really choosing to be with, was this open, thoughtful and gentle side of my dad that I don’t remember experiencing very much as a young child.

And then I made a connection between my dad’s words and a recent therapy session.

You see, I always book a therapy appointment or listening space any time I plan to visit my parents. 

Because, as Ram Dass said, “If you think you are enlightened, go spend a week with your family.”

And in this particular session, I was talking about how hard it can still be at times to differentiate between past and present when I spend long periods of time with my parents and sisters. I also named some of the family dynamics that I find to be especially painful to witness. The stuff I am still grieving.

As she listened, my therapist looked at me with so much appreciation and love. And then she said “I can see why now you care so much about creating a life and relationships where people are loving with each other and treat each other well.”

Her words, so simple–just like my dad’s–hit deep.

Because you know what? Not only did I feel so seen and validated by her words.

But also, because even though my parents loved me, our home didn’t necessarily feel loving a lot of the times. And frankly, treating each other especially well wasn’t something any of us really knew how to do.

But in my home today, things are different. Just like my dad has his toy car collection, I now have my home where it feels safe to be really loving and to be loved. A home where being treated well is expected, and poor treatment is always acknowledged and repaired. 

It’s really that simple.

To love and treat my loved ones well. To receive their genuine love. 

And thank goodness that what I want is simple. 

Because getting there, has been messy messy messy.

A beautiful kind of messy. The worth it kind of messy. 

But messy nevertheless.

Practicing parenting tools that call us to leave the protections and performances behind, and lean-in to authentic leadership. Messy and beautiful.

Choosing to become a loving witness to our own stories, acknowledge the parts of them that still hurt, and heal. Messy and beautiful.

Showing up in our relationships with honest intentions, opening our hearts even though we may get hurt, and no longer avoiding the hurts at all costs because we know how to grieve them into more love. Messy. And so beautiful.

And there it is again, the grief word.

Learning to grieve is foundational to taking our healing, relationships and lives to the next level.

It prepares us for the sometimes extreme discomfort that inevitably comes with change.

Once I could see the tender pain beneath all of the resentment I had towards my dad, I realized how much spaciousness and capacity existed within me to bear it. And heal it.

And almost spontaneously, all of that spaciousness began to fill with compassion for my dad, too. For all that he missed out on by not having a close relationship with me in my younger years.

After trying for so many years to force myself to be compassionate and forgiving towards him; it was in learning to grieve that I actually got there.

Of course, his own healing journey, marked by intention and meaningful accountability, has helped tremendously.

It has helped me to practice one very difficult thing that I believe to be true and necessary for healing—to be okay with the ever-present possibility of pain or disappointment, trusting that I have the ability to grieve it well. And in doing so, allow myself to know him, be loving with him, and treat him well.

I hope that this story can serve you as a reminder that it is never too late to work towards the things that you needed when you were little, but didn’t receive.

You get to keep choosing, and keep trying, as often as you want, for the relationship with your children that your heart longs for.