The Day It All Stood Still

2014 was a year that left its mark on me in ways I could never have anticipated. That May, I stood on a stage, wearing my cap and gown, and accepted my Master’s degree—a milestone I had worked so hard for. In September, I was promoted to a management role at AT&T, the youngest field operations manager in North Carolina. And in December, for the first time ever, four of my siblings and I stood together, side by side, not in celebration but in mourning as we said goodbye to my biological father at his funeral.

But the moment that truly brought my world to a standstill happened in May.

I remember the call vividly, the words still echo in my mind. My stepdad had suffered a brain aneurysm, and they weren't sure if he was going to make it. I was at work, pacing behind a dumpster in an AT&T parking lot, trying to hold myself together. It was the kind of news that doesn’t just shock you—it shatters you.

My stepdad came into my life when I was young, after my mom and biological father had divorced. I didn't understand it then, but looking back, I see so clearly the love and intention he showed me. He never treated me like a box to check on the way to dating my mom. He made me feel seen, valued. Whether it was a trip to the zoo, walks in the park, or just being present, he always made time for me.

I’ll never forget the day he gave me my red Power Ranger plush—Jason. He knelt down, looked me in the eyes, and told me, "I love your mom. I’ll always protect you both. But when I’m not here, Jason will keep you safe too." That plush followed me everywhere, collecting childhood snot and germs, a silent reminder of the man who promised to stand by us.

This is who my dad was. Even when my biological father hit hard times, my stepdad opened our home, showing me that kindness and empathy weren't just words—they were actions. He taught me to be good to people, no matter the situation, because that’s how we were meant to live. But all of that felt so far away that day in May.

When I arrived at the hospital, my mom had just returned from a trip to Jamaica, and the sight of my dad shook me to my core. Hands and head wrapped, face swollen—so vulnerable, so fragile. This was the man who had always been my rock. Now, he looked broken. The doctors said the surgery was successful, but there were no guarantees he’d recover. We just had to wait.

I tried to be strong. I told myself I had to be. But when I saw him, not conscious, and not knowing if he ever would be again, I broke. I had to leave the room. I didn't want my mom to see me cry.

Two weeks passed. Two weeks of whispered prayers and silent breakdowns. Two weeks of watching the man who taught me strength fight for his life in a Neuro ICU, directly in front of the nurses' station because his condition was so critical. But somehow, despite all odds, he made it.

I remember my mom telling me about what he said— "I may not remember it, but I need to be there for his graduation." And he was. Two weeks after a brain aneurysm, he was there, sitting in the audience as I walked across that stage. His memory was foggy. He couldn't  even remember how many times he had showered or brushed his teeth on most days. But he was there. For me.

I don’t take moments for granted anymore. My relationship with faith remains complicated, but I believe in something greater than us. I believe in a God who, even when she is frustrated with us, listens. I believe in the power of prayer—messy, desperate, honest prayer, whispered into the void when all seems lost, hoping that somehow those words matter. I’ve learned that vulnerability is not a sign of weakness but a measure of strength—admitting you’re scared, yet choosing hope anyway.

What changed after that? I don’t let my dad leave my presence without telling him I love him now. For so many years, I called him by his name, but never said those words. Now, I say them. Every time. Because tomorrow isn’t promised, and neither are second chances. I’ve learned that love isn’t just felt; it has to be spoken, shared, and reinforced. And while the words may seem small, they carry weight I never fully understood until that day in the hospital.

And maybe it’s fate, or maybe it’s just how life works—but years later, I found myself in a similar role. I got into a relationship with a woman who had a son the same age I was when my dad entered my life. I found myself kneeling, looking this little boy in the eye, telling him, "I'm going to protect you. I'm going to be here for you." Just like my dad did for me. I realized in that moment that love isn’t just a word; it’s an action. It’s the quiet, unspoken promises we make, the consistent showing up, even when it’s hard.

Sometimes, life has a way of circling back, teaching us the importance of love, of showing up, and of staying present—because one day, it might all stand still again. But today, I’m grateful for every heartbeat, every whispered 'I love you,' and every moment that reminds me of what truly matters.

I love you, pops. 🖤