We Knew We Were Showing Out

Father's Day always brings me back to my wedding day in 2007.

Like many brides, I woke up that morning full of excitement and nerves. My husband and I had spent months planning every detail. We had poured our hearts into creating a celebration that reflected who we were and where we came from. It was going to be an outdoor ceremony overlooking the water, followed by a reception filled with family, friends, a live band, a traditional clamboil, and a little bit of East Coast meets Midwest spirit.

Then it rained.

Not a passing shower, but the kind of rain that makes you wonder if all of your plans are about to wash away.

I remember crying as I drove to pick up my wedding band from the jeweler. I remember watching the weather and imagining every possible disaster. Most of all, I remember talking to my fiancé, who remained far calmer than I was.

"Just hold on a little longer," he kept saying. "It's okay if you're late. It will clear."

I wasn't convinced. But it did.

The rain stopped, the clouds broke apart, and by the time the ceremony began, the sun was shining.

Then my father took my arm and walked me down the aisle.

In that moment, all the anxiety disappeared.

The planning, the worrying, the weather, the nerves about standing in front of everyone I loved and taking such a big step in my life suddenly faded into the background.

I was okay. My dad was there.

The ceremony was beautiful. The sun stayed out. At one point, a ladybug landed on my dress, which everyone assured me was a sign of good luck. Whether it was or not, it felt like the perfect ending to a morning that had started with so much uncertainty.

By the time the reception began, everyone was ready to celebrate.

The band was incredible. The dance floor stayed full. Family and friends gathered around tables piled high with food and drink while the sound of laughter carried across the room from all generations. It was exactly the kind of joyful, slightly chaotic celebration we had hoped for.

Then came the father-daughter dance.

Except calling it a dance doesn't quite capture what happened.

This wasn't one of those slow, emotional dances where everyone quietly watches from their seats.

We knew we were showing out.

My dad was known for his James Brown moves, and once the music started, we leaned into the moment. We laughed, danced, and put on a performance that was every bit as much for ourselves as it was for everyone watching.

Looking back, what stands out most isn't what we did on the dance floor. It's how proud we were of each other.

I was proud that he was my father.

And when I look at the photos now, I can see the pride on his face too. His firstborn daughter was getting married, and he was right there beside me for one of the most important days of my life.

At the time, neither of us could have imagined what was ahead.

Seven years later, my father would be diagnosed with hereditary ATTR amyloidosis, a disease that neither of us had ever heard of. What followed were years of appointments, treatments, challenges, and adjustments as our family learned to navigate a reality we never expected.

Yet even as the disease progressed, my father remained himself.

In 2019, my baby sister got married. By then, his health had declined significantly, but somehow he found the strength to walk her down the aisle. Later that evening, he stepped onto the dance floor and gave us one more glimpse of the man we had always known.

One more James Brown. One more performance. One more memory.

Seven months later, he was gone.

Grief feels different this Father's Day than it did six years ago.

Recently, I came across a post from a young woman mourning her father during her first Father's Day without him. Luther Vandross's Dance With My Father played in the background as she shared her heartbreak.

Watching her brought me right back to those early days.

Not to the overwhelming grief that follows a loss so profound that it changes the shape of your world, but to something quieter.

An ache.

The kind that settles in beside you and never completely leaves.

The kind that reminds you how deeply you loved someone and how fortunate you were to have them at all.

I still miss my father every day.

I miss his laugh, his voice, and the way he could turn almost any gathering into a celebration. I miss being able to pick up the phone and hear him on the other end. I miss knowing he is here.

And I think about him every time I talk about hereditary amyloidosis.

Not because I want people to focus on loss, but because I know there are options today that my father did not have. Research has advanced. Treatments exist that were not available when his journey began. Families are finding answers sooner and living longer because of progress that continues to be made every day.

When I share my family's story, I do it because I know what is at stake.

Not statistics. Not awareness campaigns.

Moments.

A father walking his daughter down the aisle.

A dance floor filled with laughter.

A memory that lasts a lifetime.

My hope is simple. I want more children to have more time with the people they love. More conversations. More milestones. More holidays. More dances.

Because every daughter deserves the chance to dance with her father a little longer.

Happy Father's Day, Dad.

And thank you for the dance.