The Morning I Became the Strong One

Grief, inheritance, and the quiet power our parents leave behind

I recently listened to an interview that stopped me in my tracks—Anderson Cooper Podcast featuring Stephen Colbert. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t loud. It was two men speaking honestly about loss, about fathers, brothers-and their moms. It’s about the kind of grief that doesn’t screams, but settles into your bones and rearranges who you are.

If you’ve heard it, you know the moment.

If you haven’t, here’s the line that lives with you long after the episode ends:

“What punishment of God are you talking about? This is a gift to exist, and with existence comes suffering. There’s no escaping that.”

Stephen Colbert calls grief a gift—not because it’s gentle or fair, but because it is the price of deep love. And listening to him say that, something unlocked in me. Because the day my father died, grief didn’t just arrive. It appointed me.

The Morning Everything Shifted

It was 6:30 a.m.

I was alone in the hospital room, standing at my father’s bedside. The world was quiet in that way only hospitals are—too still, too aware of what’s coming.

I was the one directing the nurses.

I was the one insisting he be given every bit of pain medication available.

I was the one saying, “Make sure he’s comfortable. Please.”

I was the one praying over him .

I was in charge , and I didn’t even realize it looking back on it today.

They told me it would be quick.

It wasn’t.

For the next hour and change, I sat there as he breathed—slowly, deliberately—while I spoke to him. I reassured him. I told him I had it. That I would take control. That everything would be okay. I would take care of mum and she would be okay. He didn’t have to worry I kept saying. Tribe to hold back my tears and hoping he heard me.

And in that moment, without ceremony or permission, I became the head of my family.

There was no man stepping in.

There was no one else capable.

My sisters… they simply could not do it.

I felt in that moment GOD had trusted me to handle this situation properly. 

So I did.

The Look I’ll Never Forget

At one point, my father opened his eyes and looked directly into mine. Deep, sad blue eyes—the same beautiful blue ones that first looked at me when I entered this world as his last baby girl.

We locked eyes.

And I swear we both knew.

He looked at me the way he must have when he held me for the first time—proud, protective, trusting. I imagine him that day in his well-pressed pink Oxford button-down, dressing up just to meet me. Pink was my mother’s favorite color, but he wore it with pride because he was proud to have another daughter. 

We were always close. He drove me crazy , but I had long talks with him the days he would drive me to school and I remember one day I forgot to kiss my mom goodbye as she was recovering from surgery. I said I can’t go to school I need to go back and tell her goodbye. And he turned the car around without hesitation and took me back . That’s the kind of man he was . 

If I’m honest—you could say I was the favorite. So maybe that’s why he didn’t say no. 

He later became my colleague, too. I had the privilege of working alongside him, watching him be the brilliant engineer he was for major company. He watched me grow in my own career, always asking, “Do you need help?” When I decided against being an engineer and studying that field . He wasn’t disappointed he encouraged me to pursue what made me happy . I remember that conversation in his office .

I regret not letting him help me build that one special project later in life the one I was working on right before his final days.

I regret that he went into the hospital the night before and never came back out to be at the dedication of my memorial I had built.

But I do not regret who he made me.

Overnight, I Changed

The death of my father reshaped me—immediately.

Overnight, I became capable of handling problems that once felt too big. I became decisive. Strong. Unafraid to cut away what no longer fit.

I walked away from a relationship that dimmed me instead of letting me shine. His death showed me I deserved better 

I built a life that required courage.

I fought sickness with a strength I didn’t know I had.

Why?

I still don’t fully know.

Was it my father living on in my heart, steadying me from the inside?

Was it mourning doing its strange, alchemical work?

Was it pure survival instinct?

Maybe it was all of it.

The Ones He Never Met

There are moments—quiet ones—when I wish he could see all that I’ve accomplished. I know he would be proud. 

He would have loved TK. Wholeheartedly approved. No question. He would probably be at every West Point football game and Parade with us.

And it still makes me sad that he never got to meet Hudson.

Oh, how he would have adored him.

Hudson has the famous Chandler chin.

Beautiful brown eyes.

That spark.

But here’s what I hold onto: my father knew Hudson was coming. He knew before he died. He knew there was another life on the way into our world—and he was excited.

That matters more than people realize.

The Gift We Don’t Ask For

Listening to Stephen Colbert speak to Anderson Cooper about grief helped me understand something I’ve lived for years but never named.

Grief doesn’t just hurt.

It forms you.

It hands you strength you didn’t audition for.

It teaches you leadership when you never wanted the role.

It reminds you that love this deep leaves a permanent mark—and that mark is not weakness.

My father is not here anymore. That is hard. It will always be hard.

But he made me a strong woman.

Strong enough to fight my own battles.

Strong enough to stand alone at 6:30 a.m. and say goodbye.

Strong enough to keep going.

And if grief is the cost of love, then I will pay it, because loving him was the greatest gift of my life. And I’m thankful for having the opportunity to be his daughter and for the love they share to have me. 

I encourage you to listen to the podcast it’s really powerful. 

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/all-there-is-with-anderson-cooper/id1643163707?i=1000639798721