Living Now

A Letter to the Parents Who Provided Everything Except Themselves

Mom, Dad — you’re in your 70s, so you’ve earned the right to honesty, so here’s mine: You were strong. You were reliable. You got up every day and handled what needed handling.

You kept the house running.

You made sure we survived.

And that matters. More than you gave yourselves credit for.

But I also need to say this: Providing isn’t the same as participating.

Being present in the room isn’t the same as being present in my life.

And love that’s implied isn’t the same as love that’s expressed.

I know you didn’t withhold anything out of cruelty — you simply weren’t taught how to be emotionally open. You raised me using the tools you were given, and some of those tools were blunt, outdated, or just plain missing.

I see the good you tried to do.

And I see the gaps no one talked or knew about.

Dad — Your Love Looked Like Labor, Not Connection

Your love showed up as hard work: bills paid, repairs handled, schedules kept.

That was your language.

I learned to read it eventually.

But the truth is, you managed money more easily than you managed yourself into my growing-up years. Your presence was physical, but emotionally? It felt like you were always three steps back, watching my life instead of joining it.

Yet I want you to hear this clearly: I’m still grateful. Deeply.

Any inheritance, any financial support — I know how much sweat sits behind those dollars. I know you sacrificed to give me things you never had.

But money can’t hug a kid.

Money can’t cheer at the right moment.

Money can’t teach courage or curiosity.

It fills the fridge.

Not the relationship.

I’ve learned over time that you can be thankful for what you have and still want something more — both feelings can live in you at once. That’s not greed, that’s the heart making room for possibility.

Mom — You Carried Everything, Except Yourself

You were the emotional backbone of the whole house, even when nobody backed you.

You handled the invisible jobs, the unspoken expectations, the constant pressure to be perfect.

You wanted me safe, stable, prepared.

And I know your protection came from love.

But sometimes your fear disguised itself as advice.

Sometimes your worry sounded like doubt.

And sometimes the desire to keep me from failing kept me from learning how to succeed.

You weren’t trying to hold me back — you were trying to hold the world off my shoulders.

But because no one ever supported you, you didn’t always know how to support the version of me that dreamed a little bigger than tradition allowed.

What You Saw as “Failure” Might Have Been Under-Nurtured Potential

There were moments when you both looked at my life through old lenses — the job stability, the marriage timeline, the house, the predictable milestones — and you quietly judged me for not hitting them in the right order or at the right time.

But here’s a truth you may never have considered: I might have become wildly successful — even wealthy — if I’d had deeper support instead of just funding. Not just “here’s some money, go try it,” without any effort from you at understanding my vision, followed by “see, I told you it wouldn’t work” when things got tough.

Dream-building requires more than a check.

It needs guidance.

Encouragement.

Belief.

Someone in the trenches with you — not on the sidelines shaking their head.

I didn’t need rescuing.

I needed mentoring.

I needed partnership.

I needed you.

Not your wallet. You.

The Legacy You Didn’t Care About — But I Do

Dad, you never cared much about being remembered.

You didn’t want monuments or your name on anything.

Your philosophy was basically, “I worked hard. That’s enough.”

But here’s what you missed... I don’t want a statue of you.

I want a memory of you.

Not the man who worked. The man who lived.

And Mom, I want to know your story too — not the one wrapped in caretaking and chores, but the story of the person you were before responsibility swallowed up your whole identity.

The Lie of “Later”

You were both raised on the biggest scam your generation ever swallowed:

Work now. Live later.

Provide now. Connect later.

Survive now. Enjoy later.

But “later” is a gamble with brutal odds.

Most of the time, it never pays out the way you were promised.

You spent your best years earning the right to stand on your own, while I spent mine waiting for you to stand with me.

The good news?

You’re still here. And so am I.

Heaven Isn’t a Post-Life Prize

If your generation learned that joy comes after death, I’m here to tell you: that’s nonsense. Heaven is found in the daily stuff if you’re willing to show up for it.

Heaven is a long talk where nobody’s rushing.

Heaven is laughter that catches you off guard.

Heaven is letting your guard down — and realizing the world doesn’t fall apart.

Heaven is this moment.

Right now.

The House That Ate Your Life

I know how much you sacrificed for the house — the work, the worry, the decades of effort. You were told it would all make sense when you retired and sold it.

But the truth is, downsizing now eats almost the entire profit.

Your “investment” paid out in shelter, not freedom.

Which makes living now even more important.

The payoff isn’t coming later.

The payoff is in what we do together today.

What I Want From You Now

I don’t need you to become super-emotional or suddenly wise.

I don’t need you to fix the past.

I don’t need perfection.

I just want you — the real you — while we still have time.

Here’s how we start:

· Talk to me like I’m someone you want to know, not just someone you raised.

· Tell me a story you’ve never told — even the ones that hurt. Especially those.

· Teach me something only you know, not something you think I do not. That’s how your legacy becomes lived, not just inherited.

· Understand that you could possibly learn a couple of things from me, if you'd only let your pride and your ego take a break.

· Let’s spend time that actually turns into memories, not just logistics.

· Say one appreciation out loud. I promise I’ll say one back.

I’m not asking for a miracle.

I’m asking for connection — real, human, possible.

I’m here.

I’m open.

And I want these years with you to be the ones we both finally get to breathe in.

Let’s make these the years where we finally choose presence over assumptions, over fear.