On October 5 of 2024, I unexpectedly lost my dad, Ryan Sutherland, in a motorcycle accident. While on a biker club charity ride for a member who had recently passed away in a crash, my dad was riding at the front of the pack when he had to make a split-second decision. To avoid crashing into a motorcyclist who had dodged a car and swerved in front of him, my dad stopped short, and his own bike flipped on top of him. My dad’s choice ended his own life, but it saved somebody else’s. In a way, it was his one final act of selflessness.
I tell people all the time that my dad was the most fascinating, adventurous, and courageous man who ever lived. He was the best storyteller. In his mere 40 years on Earth, his tales spanned a lifetime— from being a little boy exploring ‘haunted’ Connecticut forests to getting arrested for skateboarding on the wrong streets of Manchester; from fleeing feral hogs alone in the deep Florida night to meeting accomplices to murder during his time in jail. He was a mechanic and a jeweler; always working with his hands on the next project, whether it be the spoon ring I still wear on my left thumb or the Mazda RX8 that he never got to finish fixing. He was an artist, saving all of his impressive sketches (even the rose he drew for me in 2009) and creating t-shirts and skateboard designs that are still used today. He was a photographer; always able to find the right camera angles, and even though he was color blind, I’ll always believe that he saw life as one big art piece.
In the three years that I knew my dad, he was the ultimate father. He was the first person to fight for me, the first person to believe in me, and the first person to tell me when I was being ridiculous. He embodied resilience, always finding strength throughout his ongoing mental health struggles, and even reaching eight years of sobriety after his drug addiction to reconnect with me. He was absolutely hilarious; not once ever afraid to speak his mind, even if it got him in trouble. He had a gift for finding the beauty in everyday things, whether it be waking up to watch the Florida sunrise or driving late at night just to blast music with the windows down. He was tough on the surface to most, but he protected and cared for me like no other. My dad once told me, “There’s been a hole in my heart for a long time, one that only you can fill.” I’ll spend the rest of my life with a hole in mine.
When Grief Meets Growing Up
After losing my dad, I was heartbroken. The death of a parent is the last thing you expect when you’re seventeen, and your whole life is ahead of you. Senior year is one of the most formative years for a teenager, and I felt the pain of my dad’s absence through it all. When I’d get accepted into another college, my first instinct was to call him. When I was in the thick of my intensive ACL and meniscus physical therapy, I yearned for his shoulder to lean on. When my injury left me only allowed to serve on my volleyball senior night, I still searched for him in the stands. When I walked across the stage at my high school graduation (something he never got to do himself), I fully believed he’d somehow be sitting there, teary-eyed and all. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t on the other end of the line. Wasn’t waiting at home. Wasn’t in the stands. Wasn’t in the crowd. I was seventeen years old, and my best friend was gone.
How do you go on after the loss of your life? How do you not become bitter when your own world stops, but everyone else’s keeps on moving? How do you find your happiness again? How do you sit in the face of evil and remember that there is good? How do you find your laughter? How do you regain your smile? These and countless more questions loomed in my mind for months following the death of my dad. Even a year and a half later, I can honestly admit that sometimes they still do— and I’ve learned that that’s entirely normal. In the midst of the hardest thing that I’ve ever gone through, I found something that brought me tranquility in a time full of noise. Something that finally brought me peace; something that I’ve always loved: reading.
Mitch Albom: A backstory
An internationally renowned and best-selling author, journalist, screenwriter, playwright, and television broadcaster, Mitch Albom is known for his deeply humanistic works, including his #1 New York Times bestseller Tuesdays with Morrie. His books have been published in 51 territories and 48 languages around the world, collectively selling 42 million copies worldwide. Outside of his writing, Albom founded the nonprofit SAY Detroit in 2006— aiding Detroiters through major health, housing, and education initiatives. In addition to his nonprofit, Albom operates Have Faith Haiti— an orphanage in Port-au-Prince that houses 56+ impoverished children and acts as a safe oasis for kids to live without fear of violence.
The first time I ever read a book by Mitch Albom was on November 23 of 2022. It was The Time Keeper. I was so amazed that I started and finished the whole thing in the same day. I soaked up every single word that he put onto those pages. With just one book, Albom made me think about the world in an entirely new way. I viewed time as something to sit with, not something to pass by. I appreciated the mundane. I stopped speeding my weeks to Fridays. I stopped waiting for the next big moment. With The Time Keeper, Albom taught me how to enjoy the present.
From that day forward, Albom became my favorite author of all time. I’d scan the shelves of every bookstore; never able to leave a Goodwill without peering through the books to see if someone was kind enough to donate something so genius. In my junior year AP Language class, my teacher heard me rave about his books so much that she once wrote “Mitch Albom would be proud” on the top of my essay. That was the best compliment I could ever receive. Years later, in October of 2025, only days after the one-year anniversary of my dad’s death, I met Mitch Albom during his Twice book tour at Hebrew College in Newton, Massachusetts (and was featured in one of his videos!). When he was signing my book, I asked him to write my favorite quote from Tuesdays with Morrie— “Love is the only rational act.” I got it tattooed four days later.
The Power of Having “A Little Faith”
Have a Little Faith is a 2009 non-fiction book that depicts Albom’s eight-year exploration of faith through two entirely different religious figures: his aging hometown Jewish rabbi, who has asked Albom to write his eulogy, and a reformed convict-turned-Christian pastor from his current hometown in Detroit. Taking readers on his journey of moving back and forth between these two polar opposite worlds, Albom observed how even in difference, many people employ faith similarly— ultimately revealing the profound comfort of believing in something bigger than yourself.
Following a series of tragic events towards the end of his life, my dad had turned to faith for comfort (even though he was an atheist for the majority of his life). He started to read the Bible, and everyone could see him changing. His rugged edges were getting softer. He was becoming kinder, especially to himself. He was more thoughtful. As Albom observed, he had found comfort in something bigger than himself— and then he passed away.
Have a Little Faith saved me in the midst of grieving my dad. Albom’s words of faith and forgiveness brought me a newfound sense of comfort. Easing my mind from the never-ending questions that I’ll never get to ask my dad, Have a Little Faith gave me relief in the belief that he had died at peace with his life. That he was free of his worries, his traumas, and his pains. That he died feeling satisfied with his 40 years on Earth. That he wasn’t scared. Or angry. Or sad.
There are a million quotes from Have a Little Faith that I live by, but there’s one in particular that has always stuck with me:
“That kind of love—the kind you realize you already have by the life you’ve created together—that’s the kind that lasts.”
As shown in this sentence alone, Albom emphasized throughout the entirety of Have a Little Faith that love is the only thing that survives death. That is when we are faced with the inevitably heartbreaking loss of a loved one; we can forever keep them alive in our memory.
Ever since reading Have a Little Faith, I have implemented that concept every single day. Mitch Albom has taught me to never stop talking about my dad’s stupid skateboarding stories and late-night drives. To never stop laughing over the face he made when I spilled an entire strawberry banana smoothie on the Wawa floor. To always remember when he fell asleep 20 minutes into Gremlins. To never forget when he brought a lizard into my room at 3:00 a.m. on a Wednesday and then made me wake up to watch the sunrise. To always stare up at his favorite constellation— Orion’s Belt— and tell all of my friends that I see my dad in the sky.