The two-hour conversation that changed my relationship with my dad

“Why didn’t we talk about this before?” I demanded, holding back tears. In my dad’s oak-paneled home office, I felt like I was teetering over a precipice, moments from plunging toward a shattering truth. 

What my dad said next changed everything.

Before that conversation, I often felt distant from him. He was a technology-obsessed risk management analyst. Meanwhile, I only valued computers to the extent that they provided Internet access. He spent his career making recommendations in uncertain circumstances, whereas I dreaded decisions, from selecting college classes to choosing between job offers. 

To feel closer to my dad growing up, I embraced his skiing hobby. On weekend trips, I closely followed him down snow-covered mountains, trying to fit my skis within his tracks. My enthusiasm had a performative aspect, though. I clung to this interest because I couldn’t grasp anything else. 

Still, despite our differences, I valued his insight. After my high school counselor discussed potential careers with me and shared pamphlets on teaching and journalism, I consulted my dad. Until that point, I’d spent my childhood immersed in books, developing a love for words. The obsession was born when I “wrote” my first story by copying "Madeline" onto construction paper. I progressed beyond unknowing plagiarism as I grew older and penned novels, relishing the feeling of ideas shaping themselves into words. 

Yet by the time I turned 18, writing didn’t seem practical. My dad confirmed my hunch, saying, “Do something with a stable income to support yourself.” 

I took his suggestion to heart. Opening my college application, I changed my major from “English” to “Teaching English.” As I did, I felt something break loose inside me. 

I buried the feeling. During college I did peer tutoring and volunteered at schools to prove to myself that I enjoyed teaching. I took creative writing classes too but saw them as passion pursuits. 

I graduated with a teaching job lined up. But as I entered a field notorious for burnout and low wages, I had lingering doubts.

My fears solidified during my first year teaching at a Manhattan public school. My classroom boasted a shattered window and a leak that forced us to evacuate twice. Every week I spent eight hours toiling outside my contractual workday. Listening to some students discuss their trauma or poverty in their neighborhoods, I worried about them. 

There were bright moments as well, like when a student wrote a note thanking me for pushing him, or when another student hugged me after she finally read her essay about self-harm aloud. At my best, I was honored to do my work. But teaching required surrendering all needs — the bathroom, food, time to pay that bill —for eight hours a day. Giving so much to others meant I lacked energy for my passions or friends, and I ached for more time to process my thoughts on the page. 

Longing for a career that sustained my creativity and wishing I had studied English in college, I began applying to editorial jobs on weekends. When I explained my struggles to my dad, he validated my feelings. “Just don’t linger on things you can’t change,” he warned.  

But I couldn’t stop thinking that I had made a mistake. I knew I wanted to write since I was six —why had I thrown that gift of clarity away? 

After my first year of teaching, I visited my parents, feeling lost: Should I do grad school to become qualified for a new field? Should I teach for a while to save money first? Angry and regretful, I wondered how my dad didn’t realize the immense influence he wielded. Of course a girl who grew up skiing in his tracks would do whatever he said. Following his guidance was, I realized, another way to feel closer to him. But that didn’t mean it was the right choice.

One night that August, my dad and I discussed my dilemma. He said attending grad school for writing would be costly without guaranteeing a job. When I asked why he hadn’t discouraged my sister from her similarly expensive, ambiguous humanities degree, he said, “It was undergrad, not a master’s she was paying for alone.” Outrage stirred inside me — a feeling that I had trapped myself, and he had unwittingly helped build the cage.

“I guess I should’ve studied what I loved when you were helping fund my degree, then. Why didn’t you say this before?” I asked desperately. 

He looked at me, his expression sincere. Everything else fell away as he said, “If you switch careers, I’ll support you fully. I just wanted you to be able to take care of yourself. My role is helping you do that.”

I sat back, stricken with a realization: My dad was just a person, trying to be the best parent he could be. His word wasn’t infallible, but helping me secure financial independence was an expression of his love. 

If I had expressed my feelings more in high school, maybe he would have nudged me toward journalism. I’ll never know, but I now realize that it is unrealistic for parents to provide perfect advice all the time. Instead, I can expect that everything my dad says is well-intentioned and then make my own decisions, knowing best what’s in my heart. 

We talked for two more hours that evening. Having my dad hear me and explain his perspective was a turning point. The whole time I was thinking, "This is all I ever wanted!" Finally, a conversation where we both were engaged as equals.

Now, in my second year of teaching, I’ve let go of blame. Recently I called my dad as I was researching grad school. He picked up on the first ring, and we talked for an hour. I was thrilled that what we shared that August night wasn’t gone. He was there for me. In turn, I wanted to know about him — the conferences he was attending, his project to convert vinyl records into MP3 files for his friend with Alzheimer’s. 

Feeling more secure in our relationship helped me feel confident in my decision to pursue writing professionally, too. No longer skiing solely in his tracks, I’m building on the foundation of his lessons and love to forge my own path. This time, I’ll leave words in my wake.