A two-hour conversation that changed my relationship with my dad

“Why didn’t we talk about this before?” – I demanded, holding back tears. In my dad’s oak-paneled home office, I felt like I was teetering on a precipice, moments before I plunged into the harrowing truth.

What my dad said next changed everything.

Before this conversation, I often felt distant from him. He was a technology-obsessed risk management analyst. Meanwhile, I valued computers only as long as they provided access to the Internet. He spent his career making recommendations in uncertain circumstances, while I dreaded decisions ranging from choosing college classes to deciding between job offers.

To feel closer to my dad, when I was growing up, I adopted his hobby of skiing. On weekend trips, I followed him down snow-covered mountains, trying to match my skis to his tracks. However, my enthusiasm had a performative aspect. I clung to this interest because I couldn’t fathom anything else.

Still, despite our differences, I appreciated his insight. After my high school counselor discussed potential career options with me and shared brochures on teaching and journalism, I consulted my dad. Up to that point, I had spent my entire childhood immersed in books, developing a love of words. The obsession began when I “wrote” my first story by copying “Madeline” on construction paper. As I grew older, I moved beyond unconscious plagiarism and wrote novels, reveling in the feeling of ideas turning into words.

But by the time I was 18, writing didn’t seem practical. My dad confirmed my hunch when he said, “Do something with a stable income to support yourself.”

I took his suggestion to heart. When opening my college application, I changed my major from “English” to “English Teaching.” When I did this, I felt something inside me fall apart.

I buried this feeling. In college, I tutored peers and volunteered in schools to prove to myself that I enjoyed teaching. I also took creative writing classes, but I saw them as a passion.

I graduated with a job as a teacher. But when I entered an industry notorious for burnout and low pay, I had doubts.

My fears were reinforced during my first year of teaching in a Manhattan public school. My classroom had a broken window and a leak, forcing us to evacuate twice. Every week I spent eight hours working outside the contractual working day. As I listened to some students talk about trauma or poverty in their neighborhoods, I worried about them.

There were good moments, too, like when a student wrote a note thanking me for pushing him, or when another student hugged me when she finally read her essay about self-harm aloud. At my best, I was honored to do my job. But teaching required giving up all of your needs – bathroom, food, time to pay the bill – for eight hours a day. Giving so much to others meant I lacked energy for my passions and friends, so I needed more time to process my thoughts on the page.

Yearning for a career that would sustain my creativity and regretting not having studied English in college, I began applying for editorial jobs on weekends. When I told my dad about my struggles, he validated my feelings. “Just don’t dwell on things you can’t change,” he warned.

But I couldn’t help but think I had made a mistake. I’ve known I wanted to write since I was six years old – why did I reject this gift of clarity?

After my first year of teaching, I visited my parents feeling confused: should I finish high school to obtain a qualification in a new field? Should I spend some time teaching money saving first? Furious and full of grief, I wondered why my dad didn’t realize the enormous influence he had. Of course, a girl who grew up skiing in his footsteps would do whatever he said. I realized that following his directions was another way to get closer to him. However, that didn’t mean it was the right choice.

One August evening, my dad and I were discussing my dilemma. He said attending college for writing would be expensive if it didn’t guarantee a job. When I asked why he didn’t advise my sister to pursue a similarly expensive and ambiguous liberal arts degree, he replied, “It was an undergraduate degree, not a master’s degree, which she paid for herself.” I was filled with outrage – the feeling that I had imprisoned myself and that he had unknowingly helped build the cage.

“Then I guess I should have studied what I loved when you helped finance my degree.” Why didn’t you say it earlier?” – I asked desperately.

He looked at me, his expression sincere. Everything else fell away when he said, “If you change careers, I will fully support you. I just wanted you to be able to take care of yourself. My role is to help you do that.”

I sat back down with a realization: my dad was just a person trying to be the best parent he could be. His words were not infallible, but helping me become financially independent was an expression of his love.

If I had expressed my feelings more often in high school, maybe it would have pushed me towards journalism. I will never know it, but I now realize that it is unrealistic for parents to give perfect advice all the time. Instead, I can expect everything my dad says to be well-intentioned and then make my own decisions, knowing best what’s in my heart.

We talked for another two hours that evening. The turning point was when my dad listened to me and explained his point of view. The whole time I was thinking, “This is all I ever wanted!” Finally a conversation in which we were both equally involved.

Now in my second year of teaching, I have let go of the guilt. I recently called my dad when I was researching graduate school. He picked up on the first ring and we talked for an hour. I was thrilled that what we shared that August night had not disappeared. He was there for me. In turn, I wanted to learn about him – about the conferences he had attended, his project of converting vinyl records to MP3 files for a friend of his who had Alzheimer’s.

Feeling more secure in our relationship helped me feel confident in my decision to continue writing professionally. I no longer only follow in his footsteps, I rely on his lessons and I love forging my own path. This time I will leave the words behind.