“Make it a great day that ends with a smile in your heart.”
Growing up, I always heard my father speak variations of these words. They’ve always sort of been ingrained in my head, but now more than ever are forever planted. He lived by them. He breathed them. And in doing so, he instilled them in me so naturally.
They weren’t just encouragement—they were a way of life, his life, and how he chose to show up each day. He was naturally positive, uplifting, and, without exaggeration, the best human I’ve ever known.
From a very early age, I understood that how you show up is a choice. But, along with that too, every day is a second chance, which were both powerful lessons that have shaped my resilient nature.
Whether it’s in moments of challenge or joy, I believe the responsibility for your mindset and actions is completely in your hands. You choose how to respond to situations, people, and yourself.
Life, though, doesn’t have to be a series of irreversible moments; instead, each new day offers a clean slate. Whether you learn from the past or are trapped by it is a choice. And even when you face setbacks or make mistakes, you have the opportunity to reset and approach things differently the next day—you just have to do it. This belief in daily renewal is a cornerstone of resilience and gives me hope and motivation to keep moving forward, even when things seem tough.
My story began in a small Ohio town many years ago, with a phone call that changed two families’ lives forever.
I’m a biracial female (white and Black) who was placed for adoption and came home to a white family that loved me deeply. It was considered a transracial, open adoption thirty-nine years ago. From the moment my new family laid eyes on me, I was theirs and so deeply loved. I completed their family of five, being the only girl, the only adopted child, and the youngest.
But life doesn’t always unfold predictably.
When I was just eight months old, my adoptive mother passed away from liver cancer, leaving my father to raise three young children on his own for many years to come. His profound loss was immense, but he didn’t let grief define him. Instead, he poured every ounce of love into me and my brothers, ensuring we never felt a void he couldn’t fill. He not only surrounded us with his love but also made sure we were supported by the love of our community.
All three of us share a different relationship with our dad, but the depth of our bond that he and I shared was immense. He was my rock, my greatest cheerleader, the person who saw my potential long before I recognized it in myself. He taught me resilience in the face of adversity and instilled a belief in myself that has carried me through even the most uncertain times. I am who I am because of him.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve identified as Black because of the color of my skin, though I’ve always known that I am also half white. Understanding my identity, however, has always been a challenge—and I believe it’s a struggle that many transracial adoptees can relate to.
Raised in a small, predominantly white town until fifth grade, I was often the only person of color in my circle. This made it difficult to understand where I fit in. The complexities of identity are immense when you find yourself in situations like this, and being biracial adds an extra layer of nuance. It becomes especially important to understand and embrace all sides of who you are. But how do you do that?
I remember seeing Ebony Magazine around the house, something that might seem small to some, but for me, it was powerful. I would just flip through it as a little girl and look at the pictures, but it showed me people who looked like me.
I also had a big sister through Big Brothers Big Sisters for several years, and there was never a moment when we shied away from discussing race or my adoption story. My dad, too, was always committed to understanding and supporting me—he continually read and educated himself on raising biracial children, even into my adult years.
Being white, he was intentional about ensuring I never felt alone in my experiences. How he did this, as a white man himself, is truly special. He understood his privileges and my disadvantages, yet he made it his mission to learn everything he could about raising a biracial child in a world where kids—and adults, in my case—could be cruel.
He could rarely (if ever) relate to the nuances of my reality, but he made it his life’s work to make sure I knew my worth in every possible way. That’s what made him so unbelievably special.
When I came home in tears because classmates questioned why I “acted white, but I was Black,” he reassured me that I didn’t need to fit anyone’s definition of who I was “supposed to be.”
After remarrying my wonderful stepmom and moving to a more diverse town, he was excited when I chose to attend a more culturally diverse high school. But when I struggled because of kids poking fun of my hair not being done or ignorant remarks from strangers, he stood by me with unwavering support, ensuring the trauma I faced was addressed head-on and talked through, because it was all part of my story.
By the time I reached adulthood, I still often grappled with the complexities of my identity. But these words echoed in my mind: “It’s not meant for them to understand” and “Sometimes, there’s no reasoning with people like that.”
These simple truths have continued to free me in times when I struggle to let go of things that don’t serve me. I didn’t need to explain myself to people who weren’t willing to listen. I only needed to be true to myself. And even today, I sometimes forget that in the moment, but I always come back to it when those moments happen.
At thirty-eight, I was forced, for the first time, to truly find my own path and face things head-on. In May of 2024, my father passed away suddenly.
Grief is heavy and unpredictable, and I find myself reaching for the phone to call him, only to remember he’s not physically here anymore. His voice, his lessons, and his love and zest for a better, more fulfilling life live in me now.
One of the things that my dad and I shared was a love for the Tiny Buddha blogs. This was the only publication we ever read together consistently. It seemed only fitting to me, in the wake of his passing, to submit this post on the anniversary of his death. Through the blogs, we learned about resilience, about finding yourself when you’re lost, and about facing life’s challenges with the absolute best intention.
My father was always the messenger of these lessons. He would say, “Life is tough, but it doesn’t have to break you.” Facing challenges, and even trauma, is essential to growth. Trauma doesn’t always have to stem from family—it can come from anyone and anything in your formative years and beyond. But what matters is how you choose to process and overcome it.
Life is unpredictable. It will challenge you, stretch you, and break you down when you least expect it. But within those moments, there is also love, resilience, and the opportunity to define your own path and start anew. My father taught me that. He would always say, “Tomorrow is a new day.” And in his absence, I am choosing to live by the words he gifted me:
Make it a great day that ends with a smile in your heart.
Because no matter what life throws our way, we have the power to choose how we respond. We have the power to create joy, to uplift others, to choose to see the glass half full, and to find meaning even in the hardest moments.
That is the legacy he left me. And that is the lesson I hope to pass on.
