Noticing What Matters: Lessons My Father Left Me

Noticing What Matters: Lessons My Father Left Me

My dad was the best dad for me.

He was honorable—not just with us, his family—but with friends, coworkers, and anyone who crossed his path. I never once saw him misbehave. He didn’t buy what everyone else was selling, but he always treated people with dignity and respect—even when they hadn’t earned it.

As a boy, he was thoughtful. Contemplative. A dreamer who loved to read, build model planes, and spend summers roaming the woods of Baldwin, Michigan with his cousin Tom. His father, my grandpa, was a railroad engineer, so Dad grew up with the magic of trains—hobos, car jumpers, and the whistle that still calls to me today. Every time I hear one, it feels like Dad reminding me to notice.

Because noticing mattered to him.

He believed every observation brought us closer to understanding. “Be alert. Be aware. Be agile.” That was his unspoken philosophy.

The Rebel and the Marine

Dad didn’t like school. He didn’t respect blind compliance. Each of us kids inherited that rebel streak.

And yet, as a young man, he became a Marine. Recon. Aircraft carriers. Submarines. He carried out missions that demanded discipline, humility, and grit. Even amidst the good-natured jabs between branches, everyone respected what it meant when boots hit the ground. The mission was his.

During those years, he wrote love letters to my mom—letters she’s never let us read. “Those are private,” she says. And maybe that’s the point. Some things are sacred.

The Servant Leader at Home

By the time I came along—the last of five—Dad had already coached baseball, taught hunting, and built family memories that sometimes left me feeling like I’d missed out. I was the “too-soft girl,” the baby not quite old enough for the “real stuff.”

But I also got a front row seat to something powerful: his patience.

He’d sit for hours with my brothers, tutoring algebra, geometry, calculus. They’d sweat and struggle, and he’d stay steady—never leaving the table until progress was made. That’s servant leadership in action. No applause, no fanfare. Just consistency.

I remember when he got a big promotion. He told my mom, “I have too much to read. I need to be faster.” And sure enough, a UPS truck delivered a dolly stacked with boxes: cassette tapes, flashcards, and booklets on speed reading.

“When I master this,” he said, “I’ll give it to you.”

I was eight years old. And I thought I became a speed reader that day. Maybe not the fastest, but certainly a prolific one.

The Silent Standard

Here’s the thing about my dad: it took a lot to make him proud.

It wasn’t about accolades. No “atta girls.” It was expected that you show up. That you work hard. That you win.

And while I’m grateful for the self-leadership he instilled, I’ve also carried the ache of wishing I’d heard him say it out loud: “I see you. I believe in you.”

That’s the thing about relationships. We filter them through our own needs, our own struggles. What didn’t I get? What did I long for?

Maybe Dad was trying to teach me something bigger: that the work of becoming myself had to be done by me, for me. That self-worth can’t be outsourced. That no amount of applause replaces the courage of knowing your own value.

His Legacy in My Life

Now, I sit with people in their own not-enoughness. I guide them through burnout recovery, the high-achiever’s exhaustion, the spiritual resilience required to rebuild.

I help them do the very thing my dad taught me—notice. Notice what’s true. Notice where you’re hiding. Notice how capable you already are.

And I imagine him at the table, now. Asking Carson questions that make him think deeper. Laughing at Maverick’s sideways glance. Watching Sully sprint to every open door. Loving Beau’s grip on his Elmo.

I imagine his deep chuckle. His way of seeing what others miss.

And I miss him.

It’s never long enough.

But the lessons he left me—the discipline, the noticing, the quiet confidence, the servant leadership—those are forever. And they’re mine to pass on.

So if you’re reading this, take it as your reminder: the work of becoming your highest self is yours. But you’re not alone. We’re all in it together.

Dad, keep visiting. I’m still noticing.

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