Things my dad taught me that I still live by

—Even if he never said most of them out loud.

My dad is—without a sliver of doubt—the greatest man of my life. He’s my Achilles' heel, but also my strength.

My father is my weakness, not in the way most people mean it, but because there’s a part of me that will always be vulnerable where he’s concerned. He’s someone whose disappointment could level me, and whose pride could rebuild me brick by brick.

Now, don’t get me wrong—my mom’s pretty dang magical, too—but with Father’s Day coming up, I want to shower some overdue love and appreciation on my dad and the life lessons he’s taught me over the years (whether he meant to or not).

And maybe, something here will remind you of your own story. Or help you see someone in a new way.

Either way, this one’s for him. My father.

Showing >>> Saying

Like most Asian parents, my dad has never been fluent in words of affirmation; “I love you,” wasn’t something we heard growing up, but it was something we felt, deeply and undeniably.

My father’s love simmered softly, like the herbal chicken soup he made from scratch the moment he noticed I was sniffling—even if it took all day. It showed up in the way he’d tweak recipe after recipe, trying to help soothe my months-long flare-ups. Or how I offhandedly said I liked Honeycrisp apples, and the next day we had 50 of them in the kitchen—even though money was tight and those yummy suckers were expensive.

And that felt warmer than a thousand I love yous.

Sometimes, some things are worth more than being right

My mom and I were two sides of the same storm—both passionate, headstrong, and stubborn as hell. We did everything together, and together, we clash. Badly. Often. Our drastically different views? A recipe for catastrophe.

but my dad always seemed (seems) to be the calm in that chaos. He’d de-escalate with one of his goofy jokes. Make Mom laugh. Help me see her point. Not because he was afraid of conflict, but because it pained him to see two people he loved hurting each other.

He taught me: being right means nothing if it costs you the relationship.

Put your 110% into everything

My dad doesn’t half-ass anything.

When my dad decided to learn English in his 40s, he didn’t just dabble—he dove in. YouTube videos, subtitles, books, mistakes. Lots of mistakes. But he never quit.

That’s how he’s always been. Whether it was pulling extra shifts at a draining job or staying up late to help me with a project before his 6am shift—he gave more than he had.

He’s 66 now. Still working. Still learning. Still showing up.

He believes if something’s worth doing, it deserves all of you. That mindset became my blueprint: for work, for love, for life.

I'm capable. I'm capable. I'm capable.

Even when I’m thousands of miles away, Dad still constantly reminds me of what I’ve done. Of what I’ve overcome. When I doubt myself, he lists my milestones like a resume: “You moved across the country. You landed the job. You figured it out. Why wouldn’t you now?”

He never let me wallow for long. Never swooped in to fix it, either. He just reminded me—gently, consistently—that I’ve done hard things before. And that I can do hard things again.

Because of him, I learned to believe in myself. Even when I don’t feel capable, especially then.

Be kind. Even when it's hard.

Dad’s kindness is subtle, but once you notice it, it's everywhere.

It’s in the way he never—not once—kept his seat if he thinks someone else needed it more, even when he's sick himself. Or the way he would stay late at work just to help a coworker who was struggling, even though he had his own mountain of things to do. He's kind and soft with everyone he meets.

He once said, “You never know what kind of day someone’s having. Don’t make it worse.”

Show up for people you love

When his brother needed help moving? He was there, arms full of boxes and bad jokes. When his sister was in the hospital, he visited every single day—even when it meant rearranging his entire work schedule. And when my grandparents started forgetting things, it was Dad who quietly filled in the blanks. Took them to appointments. Made sure the fridge was always full. Cooked for them every day—then came home and did the same for us.

And to his friends, he’s the kind of guy who would pick you up from the airport at 2am without you asking. The kind of guy who remembers your kid’s birthday, who calls just to check in, who keeps the same crew close for decades—not out of obligation, but out of loyalty.

He doesn’t make promises he can’t keep. He just keeps showing up. Over and over again.

Listen more than you talk

My dad doesn’t just hear me—he listens. He knows the names of my childhood friends, the song that always gets stuck in my head, and that I like my coffee black. He remembers the little details, and it makes me feel seen.

He doesn’t interrupt with advice unless I ask for it. He lets me vent, process, and feel, without rushing to fix anything. That kind of listening? It makes you feel safe. Known. Loved. And now, I try to offer that same space to the people I love.

Be there for your people—always

When I was a kid, every weekend—even when it was his only day off—Dad laced up his beat-up sneakers and took me to the park to play soccer. Rain or shine. Tired or not. Then we’d swing by McDonald’s and split Big Macs. That was our thing.

He doesn't always understand my choices (what is a copywriter, anyway?), but brags about me every chance he gets.

Whether it was hauling boxes into my uni dorm, helping my sister move into her first house, or showing up for a cousin he hadn’t seen in ten years—he’d arrive with bungee cords, moving blankets, and his whole back in it.

Family doesn’t have to be blood. It’s the people you show up for. The ones you carry without keeping score. The ones you make time for, even when you have none.

Be their soft place to land. Their safe space. Their steady rock.

That’s what Dad taught me—by living it. Every day.

And don't forget to be goofy—make ‘em smile

My dad is the king of corny jokes and chaotic dance moves. He once wore a watermelon helmet at a BBQ just to make the cousins laugh.

He lives by this: life’s too short to be serious all the time.

He taught me that laughter is a love language. That being silly doesn’t make you less mature—it makes you more human. It breaks tension. Builds bridges. Turns ordinary dinners into core memories.

So now, I carry that with me. Crack the joke. Do the ugly face. Wear the watermelon helmet.

Make someone's day. It’s always worth it.

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The last time I saw my dad was on a small screen, pixelated and flickering, from the phone my sister and I had used before passing it down to him. The video lagged, the audio cut out—but I could still make out the fine lines around his eyes. His hair? Still dark. Not a single grey. Blessed genes, I guess.

But in photos Mom sends, he looks… smaller. Thinner. Like the weight he’s carried for everyone else has slowly carved away at him, bit by bit.

And even so, there was still a big 'ol smile on his face. Goofy as ever. Said something that didn’t quite come through the speaker. But I laughed anyway, because I knew exactly what kind of joke he was making.

Even blurry, even far away—he still shows up.

He always has.