My signature “early riser” alarm probes the depths of my subconscious, infiltrating my dreams with an irritant tap, softly encouraging a labored rise off the Twin XL and onto my feet. Yawning, I scratch my sleep-deprived eyes before opening my phone to what is always a text from my dad:
Have a great day. Love you so much.
I don’t reply nearly as often as I should, but when I do, it’s usually a quick, succinct “love you.” Yet some part of me knows, rain or shine, good day or bad, that his words make my life subtly, imperceptibly better. I move about comfortably within the confines of my established routines, going to the gym and my classes before studying and having dinner with friends. I’ve found that my slightly robotic college life is given color by nearly daily care packages that I can knowingly attribute to my father’s all-too-willingness to send candy, trinkets and just about anything you can find on Amazon.
Despite an admitted pride in being independent, my Hopkins experience thus far has been humbling in countless ways, including a consistent and pressing need to ask for help. Which is why in early October, with midterms looming and a pressing weight in my head that didn’t seem to go away, I hesitantly sent him a text:
I need a pep talk.
My dad responded immediately, offering all the reassurance one could. He took the time to talk me through my fears, my worst-case scenarios, and told me he could drive down from Connecticut if we needed to talk. I took deep breaths and rationalized my anxieties in a steady, rhythmic stream of paragraph-long blue texts. I don’t know what I would have done without him.
I say all this to put my father's place in my life into context. Now, a 650-word letter can’t accurately describe what 18 years has helped me learn, but it can scratch the surface of what he means to me.
For as long as I can remember, home has looked like an Orioles cap, a goofy grin and the combination of a tightly clasped handshake with a heartfelt, all-enveloping hug. It’s in the Instagram reels we jokingly exchange, poking fun at each other in ways only friends could.
Or the screaming, jumping and crying that accompanied an acceptance letter to this school.
I vividly remember my legs swinging wildly from the chained monkey bars at my elementary school, grip faltering before I landed squarely on the wood-chipped ground. My dad stood beside me, repeating his mantra, “You can do anything you set your mind to.” At the time, those words sounded more like a Hallmark Card than life advice, but in recent years, I’ve been internalizing his simple phrase more. They are embedded in every cold email I send and every deep breath I take before walking into class at a school I previously could only dream of attending. Whenever I feel my feet dangling in thin air, I remember that the next bar is only inches ahead and my biggest fan is keeping an eye on me from just beyond the jungle gym.
All the “thank you”s in the world couldn’t do my father justice. In his mind, it’s all part of the job. The job of driving for hours to bring me some of my favorite Honeycrisp apples or granting me the favor of leaving quickly before I burst into tears as he ambles back to the rental car, before driving off into the Baltimorean fall. Sometimes I don’t think I’ll ever be able to form the words or the sentences to tell him what he means to me. Sometimes that hurts more than missing him.
We sit on Starbucks’ padded black stools, feet idly tapping as we exchange pleasantries, softly probing each other with familiar “how’s class?” or “how’s work?” that have become the norm for our semi-monthly meetings. Our eyes gently meet, subtly, imperceptibly acknowledging what I rarely say:
I love you, Dad.
Bryce Leiberman is a freshman from Madison, Conn. studying Political Science and Philosophy. His column records a search for authenticity exploring the past, present and restless work of becoming oneself.
