I miss my dad 🥹

I miss my dad.

Not in a dramatic way. Not for sympathy. I miss him in the quiet moments. In the space between accomplishments. In the car rides. In the silence after good news. In the moments when I wish I could just call him and say, “Look what I did.”

I lost my dad in 2020 at the height of Covid. He passed away from a heart attack. And what still weighs on me is that when he died, we weren’t fully okay.

My dad had always been in my life. No matter how negative people try to imply that women like me must not have had fathers, that narrative doesn’t belong to me. My dad was present. He wasn’t at my kitchen table every morning, but he never missed a birthday. Never missed Christmas. He sent Valentine’s Day gifts. He showed up.

He was married. I have two sisters, one older and one younger. My family wasn’t traditional in structure, but I had a father. And I acknowledge that with gratitude.

I also have to acknowledge my stepmother.

I grew up supported. That is the truth.

The last time I physically saw my dad was April 2019.

I had moved to Atlanta for a man. I left Connecticut after graduating college to start over. The relationship didn’t work out. I found myself in a different state, alone, trying to figure out how I was going to rebuild my life.

When the breakup happened, my dad and my brother drove down to Atlanta to help me move out of that man’s house.

I will never forget how I felt seeing him. I was embarrassed. I was disappointed in myself. But I also felt safe. No matter how independent I tried to be, my dad showed up when I needed him.

They helped me move into my own apartment. He left knowing I was okay.

After that, we talked almost every day.

Until one morning.

It was around 6:00 AM when he called. We never talked that early. I knew something was different.

I didn’t answer right away. I was getting dressed for work. I remember thinking I’d call him back in a minute.

I got in my car and called him.

“Hey Dad, good morning.”

And the first thing he said was, “What’s this I hear about you having pictures on the internet?”

Someone had told him about my OnlyFans. Someone showed him something.

To this day, that part makes my stomach turn. What kind of man shows a father explicit content of his daughter? That wasn’t concern. That was intentional cruelty.

I was 31. Working two jobs. Barely making payments on time. Trying to survive in a new city.

He scolded me. Told me I didn’t need to do that. Told me to work a respectable job. Told me to pray.

And I remember saying something honest.

“Prayer doesn’t fix financial problems. You have to do something different.”

He kept asking what I needed extra money for. Why wasn’t two jobs enough?

Because I didn’t want to survive. I wanted to live.

I didn’t want to clock in and clock out forever. I didn’t want stress to be my permanent lifestyle. I wanted freedom. I wanted comfort. I wanted options. I wanted to build something.

All he saw was risk.

All I saw was potential.

We went months without speaking after that.

Then one afternoon in May, while I was at brunch with a friend, I got the call.

My dad was gone.

Just like that.

A praying man. A church man. A man who believed God handled everything.

And I won’t lie. That loss shook my relationship with faith. If prayer fixes everything, why didn’t it fix this? If he prayed daily, why wasn’t he protected?

Those questions lived in me quietly.

After he passed, something in me shifted.

I continued creating content. I never did porn. I never went fully nude. My content was bold, yes. Spicy, yes. But controlled. Intentional. Strategic.

And I have to be honest.

When my dad died, part of me felt like the worst had already happened. The ultimate disrespect had already been done. Someone had already shown him something they never should have. The fear of disappointing him had already materialized.

So I stopped shrinking.

I leaned into being myself.

But here’s the part that matters.

Content creation did not stop at “spicy pictures.”

It evolved.

My dad and my mom both knew how much I loved photography. They knew how obsessed I was with capturing moments, angles, light. My mom bought me my first professional camera. I will never forget that. That camera felt like permission. It felt like someone believing in my eye before I even knew how far it would take me.

Today, that is my career.

I shoot. I edit. I direct. I produce. I understand lighting. I understand framing. I understand branding. My photography skills are top tier because I’ve studied them through practice. My video editing skills are sharp because I taught myself how to turn nothing into something cinematic.

What started as survival turned into mastery.

What he saw as shame turned into skill.

The same platform that once caused tension is the reason I know how to color grade a sunset perfectly. The reason I can film travel content that looks like it belongs on television. The reason I have an eye for design, detail, aesthetic.

I have an eye. A serious one.

And I wish he could see that.

I wish he could see that what he thought was reckless actually built discipline. What he thought was temporary actually built a career. What he thought was embarrassing actually sharpened a talent that was always inside me.

I don’t blame him for not understanding. He came from a different generation. All he saw was risk. He didn’t see the transition. He didn’t see the long game.

But the “spicy” chapter led me to a creative empire.

Now my content is travel. Photography. Lifestyle. Production. Directing. Editing. Design. Branding.

Respectable by anyone’s definition.

Sometimes I wonder if he would be proud now.

I wonder if he would say, “I didn’t get it back then, but I see it now.”

I still miss him.

I miss the arguments. I miss the stubbornness. I miss the lectures. I even miss disappointing him, because at least he was here to disagree with me.

Recently, a supporter sent me a blanket with a beautiful message printed on it. Every time I see it, I read it. And every time I read it, I cry. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just that quiet cry that lives in your throat.

It reminds me that love still exists. That support still exists. That I am still held, even in absence.

Grief is complicated when love was complicated.

But if my dad can see me now, I hope he sees that I didn’t choose rebellion.

I chose evolution.

I chose to take what I had and turn it into something greater.

I chose survival, then I chose skill, then I chose mastery.

And most of all, I chose happiness.

And maybe, just maybe, that was the prayer all along.

Maybe all those years of church. All those mornings he bowed his head. All those times he said God would make a way. Maybe he wasn’t praying for control. Maybe he wasn’t praying for perfection.

Maybe he was simply praying that his daughters would be okay.

That we would be happy.

That we would be financially stable.

That we would never have to depend on anyone to survive.

That we would be able to take care of ourselves if he wasn’t here to do it for us.

If that was the prayer, Dad…

✨ then Right On!

Your prayers come true 😌