Yesterday, a good friend reminded me of something I sometimes forget.

She asked me how I was feeling about my dad, his cancer, and the fact that he is going through chemotherapy to keep it at bay.

My answer surprised me a little.

“I’m okay.”

Not because I want him to die. I don’t.

Not because I want him to experience pain or struggle. I certainly don’t.

I’m okay because my dad and I have talked.

We don’t keep things from each other. We’ve had the hard conversations. We’ve talked about what matters to him, what he wants, and what he doesn’t want. I know his wishes.

And there is an incredible kind of peace that comes from that.

I’m still his little girl. I’m sure there are times he puts on a brave face for me, and maybe even fights a little harder because I’m watching.

But underneath all of that is something I’m incredibly grateful for: we have talked honestly while we still can.

My dad has loved me to the best of his ability. He has taught me lessons through both the good and the difficult parts of life. He communicates the best way he knows how.

And that, in itself, is a gift.

There is another side to this realization for me.

My mom and I had those conversations too. We talked about life. We talked about difficult things. We talked deeply.

But dementia has changed that.

The conversations I once had with my mom, the ones where we could explore an idea, work through something difficult, or simply connect heart-to-heart, aren’t available in the same way anymore.

And that has made my relationship with my dad feel even more precious.

He has become, in some ways, my saving grace. I can still talk to him in a way I can no longer talk to my mom.

And maybe that’s the lesson I’m being reminded of.

Have the conversations.

Don’t assume there will always be more time.

Ask the questions you’ve been avoiding.

Tell someone what they mean to you.

Talk about what matters. Talk about wishes. Talk about fears. Talk about the things that feel uncomfortable.

Because someday, one of those conversations may become a gift you carry with you.

As a coach, I often talk about being intentional with our lives. Sometimes that means setting boundaries or taking care of our bodies. Sometimes it means slowing down enough to actually listen to what our hearts are telling us.

And sometimes, it simply means picking up the phone and having the conversation.

While you still can.

A few things to consider

– What conversation have you been putting off?
– Is there something you need to ask someone while they are still able to answer?
– Is there something you need to say that you’ve assumed you will have time to say later?
– Do the people closest to you actually know what matters most to you?
– And if circumstances changed tomorrow, would you have peace knowing you had said what needed to be said?

We can’t control how much time we have with the people we love.

But we can be intentional about how we use the time we have.

Sometimes the greatest gift isn’t knowing what the future holds.

It’s knowing that you’ve had the conversations that matter.The Gift of the Conversations We Have While We Can

Yesterday, a good friend reminded me of something I sometimes forget.

She asked me how I was feeling about my dad, his cancer, and the fact that he is going through chemotherapy to keep it at bay.

My answer surprised me a little.

“I’m okay.”

Not because I want him to die. I don’t.

Not because I want him to experience pain or struggle. I certainly don’t.

I’m okay because my dad and I have talked.

We don’t keep things from each other. We’ve had the hard conversations. We’ve talked about what matters to him, what he wants, and what he doesn’t want. I know his wishes.

And there is an incredible kind of peace that comes from that.

I’m still his little girl. I’m sure there are times he puts on a brave face for me, and maybe even fights a little harder because I’m watching.

But underneath all of that is something I’m incredibly grateful for: we have talked honestly while we still can.

My dad has loved me to the best of his ability. He has taught me lessons through both the good and the difficult parts of life. He communicates the best way he knows how.

And that, in itself, is a gift.

There is another side to this realization for me.

My mom and I had those conversations too. We talked about life. We talked about difficult things. We talked deeply.

But dementia has changed that.

The conversations I once had with my mom, the ones where we could explore an idea, work through something difficult, or simply connect heart-to-heart, aren’t available in the same way anymore.

And that has made my relationship with my dad feel even more precious.

He has become, in some ways, my saving grace. I can still talk to him in a way I can no longer talk to my mom.

And maybe that’s the lesson I’m being reminded of.

Have the conversations.

Don’t assume there will always be more time.

Ask the questions you’ve been avoiding.

Tell someone what they mean to you.

Talk about what matters. Talk about wishes. Talk about fears. Talk about the things that feel uncomfortable.

Because someday, one of those conversations may become a gift you carry with you.

As a coach, I often talk about being intentional with our lives. Sometimes that means setting boundaries or taking care of our bodies. Sometimes it means slowing down enough to actually listen to what our hearts are telling us.

And sometimes, it simply means picking up the phone and having the conversation.

While you still can.

A few things to consider

• What conversation have you been putting off?
• Is there something you need to ask someone while they are still able to answer?
• Is there something you need to say that you’ve assumed you will have time to say later?
• Do the people closest to you actually know what matters most to you?
• And if circumstances changed tomorrow, would you have peace knowing you had said what needed to be said?

We can’t control how much time we have with the people we love.

But we can be intentional about how we use the time we have.

Sometimes the greatest gift isn’t knowing what the future holds.

It’s knowing that you’ve had the conversations that matter.