Reflecting on my childhood, I remember my father’s early mornings. He would board the train from our suburban home to downtown Chicago, spending his day in a towering office building on Jackson Boulevard. I still recall the one time he took me with him on a Saturday. I was struck by the greenish glass of the train windows, the overflowing ashtrays, and the cluttered desks, all while my ears popped in the elevator on our way to the top of the Sears Tower.
Every evening, he returned on the 5 o’clock train. I would race from the family room through the kitchen and into the foyer to greet him. The moment the front door creaked open, I would leap into his arms, my cheek pressed against his trench coat, which smelled of smoke and train exhaust.
Once home, he would retreat to the basement, where I could hear the rhythmic thumping of his punching bag. After a long drink from the kitchen sink, sweat glistening on his chin, he would later snuggle with me, his deep voice resonating as he read me captivating stories. This was my father’s life as I knew it: predictable, secure, and filled with happiness. It wasn’t until I grew older that I learned he was waking up each day for a job he despised.
He often advised me, “Never accept a job you don’t enjoy. It’s simply not worth it. Pursue what you love.” I can vividly picture him, his blue eyes filled with sadness, imparting this wisdom.
As a child, my father found joy in reading, immersing himself in classics like Treasure Island, The Ted Williams Story, and Crime and Punishment. In his room, he sought refuge in books, avoiding the teasing of neighborhood kids. This passion for storytelling shaped my own understanding of narratives—how to craft compelling arcs, dialogue, and settings. I remember his enthusiasm for the ordinary conversations in the film Fargo, which illustrated a universal human desire for connection through simple dialogue.
While in college, my father considered majoring in literature to become an English teacher. However, a well-meaning counselor steered him toward accounting, claiming it would ensure job security. He followed that advice, eventually marrying and supporting a family. Despite his responsibilities, it was clear he longed for a life aligned with his passions. If he had glimpsed the years of spreadsheets and tax documents ahead, he likely would have chosen a different path—perhaps rushing to enroll in a World Literature class instead.
In many ways, his choices became my lessons. The missteps of our parents often serve as our most profound instructors. We learn from their experiences and strive to do better, ultimately finding happiness in our own lives. My father’s sacrifices taught me the importance of following one’s passion. I embraced this philosophy, pursuing careers as a reporter, political communications director, and author, all driven by my love for writing and storytelling. I understand the brevity of life and the necessity of seeking joy, a lesson imparted by my father.
Now, as a parent myself, I recognize that I will make mistakes, and my children will learn from them. Just as my father ensured I learned from his experiences, I will share both my mistakes and my greatest teaching: to pursue what you love. His wisdom will echo through generations, reaching my grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
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In summary, the lessons we learn from our parents shape our lives profoundly. My father’s journey and his advice to follow one’s passion resonate with me, guiding the choices I make as I raise my own children.