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We all have heroes. Some are parents or uncles or godmothers. Some are sports figures or people who excel in their field. Some are even our own children.
Mine was my dad.
I remember turning on my phone the morning after my son was born to find 7 messages from my mom.
I remember stumbling through the airport on my way back to Boston, in a literal haze.
I remember calling one of my best friends and just crying. Barely able to get any words out.
I remember my boss phoning to offer his condolences before I’d even told the office.
I remember the eulogy I gave, and the sleepless night after, when I couldn’t bring myself to sleep in my own childhood bedroom…which was right next to the room where he slept every night. So I slept on the living room couch instead.
I remember the last conversation we had. I was telling him all about his new grandson.
I remember the last hug he ever gave me.
You remember all of those moments when you lose your hero.
And your hero doesn’t have to die for you to lose them. Maybe it’s a marriage that ends. Maybe it’s a kid who leaves for college and takes a piece of your purpose -- and your heart -- with them. Maybe it’s a friend who drifts apart, or a parent who forgets who you are…
The loss I’m talking about is any moment the person you built your identity around is no longer there for you. And that’s when you’re faced with a choice.
When I lost my dad, the question I was left with was: Who am I without him?
So much of who I’d become was wrapped up in him. I made choices with one eye on what he’d think of them. I built a career, in part, because I wanted to be someone he was proud of. I wanted him to know I was “successful”. That his sacrifices were worth it. I built it so that I could repay the enormous debt I felt to the incredibly positive influence he had on my life. His opinion was a compass I didn’t even know I was using…until the compass was gone.
And when that dust began to settle, there was another thought that emerged: Had I actually become someone he would be proud of? Was I using my gifts to be truly and completely me?
The honest answer was no. My job was just a job, it wasn’t a passion. And the job wasn’t the problem. It was who I’d stopped trying to grow into as a result of it.
There’s an idea first introduced by Plato (I believe), and built upon in later works. It’s an idea that has always intrigued me: as souls, we agree to play roles for each other before we ever arrive into our lives. I’m still not sure if I believe it. But it’s a really fun way to think about things. And from this framing, it’s an interesting way to relate to our heroes.
As it pertains to my dad, here’s a belief that warms my heart to think about: his contract with me was to be my hero long enough for me to become who I needed to be. He saved me from myself as a teenager, nudged me away from wrong turns and supported me all along the way. He helped me stay on track until adulthood.
And then his second act, the harder one, was to leave. And in his leaving, he created the space I needed to finish becoming a whole, independent person. His leaving helped me to stop depending on his belief in me. And to learn to generate my own belief in myself.
And from that lens, his death is not a tragedy. It’s actually the most loving contract a father can make with his son.
Most of us never examine our own contracts until they break. We let others be our compass. We look to our heroes to show us how to live and who to be. Our pride in self often becomes about how happy we make them. And it can work for a while, even an entire lifetime. Until it doesn’t. And then they’re gone, or gone from that role, and we’re left asking who we are without a hero to measure ourselves by.
My dad’s death forced me to take a long hard look in the mirror. It was a defining moment. When we lose our hero, we have an opportunity to become the hero of our own story. That’s when we finally, sometimes for the very first time, decide what story we want to write.
You get to write a story that makes you proud and not anyone else. You have that opportunity in every single moment. But if you’ve never done that before, it takes a while to warm up the muscles. Nobody hands you a blueprint. And no one else can do this work for you. But when you finally find that steady ground to stand on, nobody can take it away from you. And you feel stronger and more solid than you ever were.
The roles in my life reorganized themselves overnight. I went from a childless husband with two parents who loved me to a father and sole caretaker for my sick mom. A role model for my newborn son, without a father to call for the answers. I suddenly needed to be everything.
Of course, that wasn’t actually true, because life is a team sport. But I felt it anyway. Every role I played got heavier and more important at the same time.
What I didn’t know then is that this was a fundamental part of the transformation.
And that’s what can be so sneaky about losing your hero. It’s not just the unbearable grief. It’s also oftentimes paired with a promotion. You get handed the keys to becoming the one that everybody leans on. And who you decide to become from there is the story you were always meant to write.
So if you’ve ever lost your hero, I’m right there with you.
And if you’re willing to share in the comments, I’d love to know…who did you become?
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