Life Without a Rudder

I never understood what it meant to be rudderless until I lost my dad. I didn’t realize just how much I counted on him to keep me grounded. He’s been gone five years and I feel like a boat that’s being tossed by waves, unable to steer, unable to moor. 

As long as I can remember, my dad has been my hero. My baby photo album contains shot after shot of my dad holding me – cradling my head so gently as he holds a newborn me; holding me safely with one arm while feeding a swan with the other; crouching to my level, arm encircling me as I stood next to him, wearing a hanbok and looking out of place. 

I love my mom, too, as fiercely as I love my dad, but she had a different energy. Her way of raising me was different from my dad’s, and that’s to be expected. My mom grew up in Korea with many brothers and sisters. Her life was strict, and I learned (decades later) that the way she tried to raise me is very similar to the way kids are raised in Korea. Unfortunately for me, I had no idea what was going on and instead of trying to sit and make sense of it, I pushed her buttons, over and over and over.

My mom and I have similar tempers. We can give the cold shoulder like nobody’s business. I was on the receiving end many times. I gave it back, not realizing that all I had to do was apologize, even if I thought I was right. It was all about respecting my mom. I did respect her. I admired her so much. She left a family and a country for love, moving to the US with my dad, then traveling across the country and overseas as an Army wife with five kids. 

Where my mom was an agitator, my dad was a calm sea. Upon meeting him, you’d never guess that he was a sergeant. (Staff Sergeant, then Sergeant First Class, then Master Sergeant). Sergeants have reputations for being tough talkers and tough taskmasters. My dad wasn’t like that. He was soft spoken, quick-witted, and welcoming. He mentored the young soldiers in his troop. When we lived in Germany, he invited young soldiers for Thanksgiving dinner. My mother did not mind. She welcomed them as if they were her own family. 

After my mom passed away, I counted on my dad to be everything – a hero, a lifeline, a safe space. He excelled at each role, even when he was busy traveling for his job. In recent years, I called my dad often, usually in the morning while driving to work. We mostly talked about light topics. He’d tell me about the television series he was watching. If I’d watched the series, I’d add to the chat. He loved YouTube and would fall down a rabbit hole of videos of specific singers (Susan Boyle, Celtic Thunder, Celtic Women), comedians (whose names I cannot remember). He especially loved watching videos of people reacting to momentous scenes in “Game of Thrones.”

There were times I called him, troubled. Like when watching the movie “Less than Zero” triggered a flashback of nearly dying of a drug overdose. I called him at 2:30 am. My dad was groggy when he picked up, as I’d woken him out of a deep sleep. But he let me talk and reassured me that I was safe and he was proud that I’d been two years clean (at that time).

There were other, similar phone calls. I won’t detail each one here. But no matter what I had to say, my dad knew how to calm me down and slow down my racing mind. He didn’t always have a solid plan to solve whatever challenge I was facing, but he stabilized me enough to be able to think of a solution on my own. 

All five of us (my four siblings and I) had different types of relationships with our mom and dad. I believe they loved us equally, and as well as they could. 

I know my dad would tell me to sit, breathe, and think about the challenge I’m currently facing: feeling rudderless without him. He would tell me he has faith in me that I can find a way to resolve this and begin moving forward again.