College makes you feel like you’ve got it all figured out. You move into your tiny kingdom of laundry piles and instant ramen, and suddenly, you’re independent. You cook (sometimes), you do laundry (eventually), and you repeat your mantra like its gospel: “I’ve got this.” And for a while, you actually believe it.
Until life hits you with a terrible grade on a test you thought you did amazing on, a total breakdown over a boy, or your cars AC stops working—and just like that, all that independence starts to look like a group project you can’t finish alone. That’s when you remember, sometimes, you really just need your dad.
We fight, we miscommunicate, we both think we’re right 110% of the time. Our relationship could be described as business meetings when you really think about it. I cry, he sighs, I sniffle, he says, “You’ll be fine,” and—annoyingly—I usually am. Still, there’s this weird, unbreakable thing between us. No matter how bad the argument, it always ends in some awkward half-apology where neither of us says “sorry,” but somehow, it’s understood.
He’s there always. And I mean always.
But lately, I’ve realized how much of him I carry without even noticing. The sarcasm that gets me through rough days. The way I refuse to quit, even when I really want to. The calm I fake when everything’s falling apart—yep, all dad. He’s the reason I double-check the locks before bed, blast classic rock when I’m stressed, and think I can fix everything.
Now, he’s not the warm-and-fuzzy, Hallmark-movie type of dad. He’s the “I changed your tire at 2 a.m. and made fun of your driving the whole time” kind of dad. The “I won’t say I’m proud, but I’ll brag about you to strangers in a little island in Florida” kind of dad. The kind who won’t directly say “I love you,” when he’s angry, but somehow says it anyways.
To me though, he’s Darrell. He’s my dad.
Music was the first thing that ever connected us. He taught me how to love it, not just listen to it, but feel it, to let it grab me by the ribs and refuse to let go. He’s the reason I know every word to songs from Theory of a Deadman, Avenged Sevenfold, and 3 Doors Down. Those bands became the soundtrack of my teenage years, the late-night drives, the messy emotions, and everything in between.
We spent so many hours in that truck, the two of us, music turned up way too loud for the small-town roads we drove down. I can still picture it perfectly, right hand on the wheel, left tapping against the door, head slightly bobbing, eyes squinting just enough to hit the notes he absolutely couldn’t hit.
His middle name is Benjamin, so naturally, we turned it into a running joke. “Ben’s jamming again,” we’d laugh every time he’d belt out another verse like he was headlining a stadium instead of sitting in a muddy GMC.
But, behind the teasing, there was this invisible string tying us together. Because “Ben” really was jamming—and so was I, in my own way, learning to find rhythm just by watching him live in his.
Then there’s passion. My dad doesn’t just do things; he throws himself into them like the worlds on fire and it’s somehow his job to put it out. It’s infuriating, inspiring, and exhausting all at once. He’s the kind of man who can’t sit still when there’s work to be done, who believes half-hearted effort is a personal sin. And that fire—God, he’s passed it straight to me.
I remember my first varsity cross country meet in eighth grade. I was halfway through the course, coming up a slanted hill, drenched in sweat, lungs clawing for air, ready to just roll down the hill and vanish. And there he was—on the sidelines, yelling like the coach of a team that actually had a shot at nationals. He was pacing, shouting my name, and clapping so loud people turned. It was equal parts terrifying and motivating.
I wanted to strangle him, but I didn’t quit.
When I finally crossed the finish line, gasping and half-dead, not even in top 20, he was right there—grinning like I had just won gold. He told me he was so very proud of me. That moment, the mix of relief, irritation, and warmth, it burned itself into me. Because that’s what he does. He pushes. He believes, even when I don’t. He demands the best version of me, even when I’m convinced that she doesn’t exist.
And that? That’s a trait of him I carry every single day.
He’s not my mom; I can’t tell him everything. Some things would hit too close, and he would see too much. I can’t cry in front of him without him shaking his head in a way that says, “Pull it together, kid.” And of course, I immediately do. But that doesn’t mean he’s not my rock. Quietly, always, he holds the foundation steady. And sometimes, out of nowhere, I realize how much of my strength is actually just him—borrowed, built in, and impossible to untangle.
To the world, he’s just Darrell. But to me, he’s my blueprint. My idol. The person who built so much of who I am without ever trying to.
His influence sneaks into the tiniest corners of my life. I hum his songs under my breath without realizing it. I push myself when it’d be easier to quit. I hold myself to invisible standards he never had to say out loud. I hear him in my sarcasm, see him in my stubborn streak, and feel him in the quiet pride that rises up when I prove myself. Little breadcrumbs of him, scattered everywhere, leading me back home.
So, thank you, Darrell. Thank you, Dad. For the music that shaped me, the passion that drives me, and the quiet strength that holds me up when I swear that I’m fine on my own. Thank you for building me into someone I am proud to be—even when I pretend that I did it all by myself.
You’re not perfect, but you’re my dad, and I love you regardless.