For years after the crash, "What would Dad do?" became my North Star. Sometimes this drove me to exhaustion, trying to fill shoes that were never meant for my feet. I'd berate myself for not having his natural discipline, his seemingly endless patience, his ability to make complex decisions look simple.
It took me longer than I'd like to admit to understand that honoring Dad's memory didn't mean becoming his carbon copy. The question isn't really "What would Dad do?"—it's "What would the person Dad raised me to be do?" The answer to that question is uniquely mine, built on the foundation of values he gave me but expressed through the lens of who I am.
Twenty-eight years later, I still feel the weight of that September morning when everything changed. But I also feel the lightness of his laughter, the strength of his embrace, and the quiet confidence in his voice when he'd tell me I could do anything I set my mind to.
Dad, you were one of a kind. I'm learning to be one of a kind too, in my own way. Thank you for showing me that excellence and love aren't opposites—they're dance partners. Thank you for proving that being human doesn't disqualify us from being extraordinary.
The plane took you from us too soon, but the man you were—the father you were—continues to fly in everything little good we try to do in this world.
Until we meet again.