Today was my dad’s funeral. Writing these words still doesn’t feel real. There’s so much I want to say about him—so much I want people to know. Because my dad wasn’t just any man. He was extraordinary in every sense of the word.

He wasn’t supposed to make it past 20.

At 19, he was in a horrific motorcycle accident. Doctors didn’t think he’d survive. For a long time, we weren’t sure he would. He was unconscious for days, maybe weeks. And when he finally woke up, everything had changed. He couldn’t walk. Couldn’t move or feel anything from the chest down. In an instant, the life he thought he would have was taken from him.

But he never let that stop him.

He spent more than a year in recovery, learning how to live in a body that no longer worked the way it used to. He didn’t wallow or give up. He made a decision—he was going to keep living. He told my uncle that his new goal was to make it to 60. Most people with his condition didn’t get that far. But he was determined.

He went back to college, wheeling himself across campus in rain and snow. He almost never asked for help, not out of pride, but out of sheer grit. He wanted to prove—to himself and the world—that his life wasn’t over. It was just different.

He became a graphic designer and went on to have an amazing career. He designed collectible player cards and even interviewed some of the biggest names in sports. He loved what he did and worked as long as his body would let him.

But his life wasn’t just about what he accomplished. It was about who he was.

He met my mom at a church retreat. Yes, he was in a wheelchair, but that didn’t stop him from dancing. And when he proposed to her, it was with a giant sign and even bigger love. Their marriage was full of devotion, humor, and strength. They went through more than most couples ever will, but my mom never left his side—not even when things got unimaginably hard.

When they got married, they weren’t sure they could have children. So when my mom got pregnant with me, it was a miracle. A gift. And then my sister came along. Our family was complete.

My dad never let his disability keep him from being a present, adventurous, loving father. He took me to baseball games, on road trips, to school events, and never missed a single thing. He cheered me on louder than anyone. He believed in me in ways I didn’t even know I needed. He taught me how to live with courage, humor, and grace.

And he made it to 60.

Not only that—he lived long enough to meet his first grandchild. A moment he dreamed of, and one he deserved more than anyone. That moment alone was a victory. A quiet, beautiful miracle that meant everything to him.

The end was hard. Watching someone you love slowly lose their strength is a kind of pain you can’t prepare for. But he never lost his spirit. He never stopped being my dad. And even though my heart feels broken now, I know I’ll carry his strength with me for the rest of my life.

He was the greatest man I’ve ever known. And he was mine.

I miss you, Dad. Thank you for teaching me how to live. I hope I make you proud.