Letter to My Old Self: The Woman Daddy Raised Me to Be

 

“A man is not truly dead until he is forgotten.”

— West African Proverb, The Cow Tail Switch

On May 28, 2007, I lost my father — my best friend, my biggest fan, my coach, my spades partner, my source of bold Black brilliance. And for years, I didn’t grieve. I ran. Into love, into relationships, into silence, into survival. But survival isn’t the same as healing. And healing wasn’t something I even believed I had the right to. Eighteen years later, I’m finally catching up to the woman he raised me to be. Which made this the perfect time to publish this month’s Letter to My Old Self, and yes, it’s an actual letter.

“Be strong, Pri.”

That’s what I heard the night Daddy died. Over and over again, as I cried myself to sleep in Mommy’s bed, the first and last time I remember doing that after childhood. You were twenty. An adult, but still way too young. Grief cracked open something we didn’t yet have the language or support to name. But still, you showed up “strong”. Strong for the planning. Strong for the funeral. Strong for all the public-facing parts of loss. Then came the quiet. And in the silence, you unraveled.

So, today, I want to talk gently to the girl who buried her best friend, her teacher, her greatest cheerleader — and then went numb.

You lost yourself in a love that felt like survival, not safety. And in that fog of grief, you confused pain for passion, silence for strength, and codependence for love. You bled on people who didn’t cut you — not because you wanted to, but because you were broken and no one had taught you how to grieve, yet. So you held it in your body, in your choices, in the parts of yourself you abandoned just to keep going.

I know now that wasn’t strength. That was survival. And survival, my love, is not the same as living. And our dad?! He raised us for so much more.

He taught you to write. And when grandma was preaching the Holy Spirit, he would sneak you books on African spirituality to provide context. He encouraged you to explore because he knew, and you would learn that every path leads back to the same Creator. He taught you chess, spades, bid whist. He filled you with curiosity and Black pride. He believed deeply in knowledge and was rooted even deeper in love. He basked in your light, his firstborn, bold and full of promise. You were his Denise Huxtable. His Hilary Banks. The original pretty girl with a sharp mind and a wild imagination.

He always knew you were his legacy.

He told you to dream big, and you did. And even now, as you tweak and grow and scale your businesses (and others), you’re reclaiming everything you were always meant to be. You’re raising your babies with the stories he gave you. You’re telling the world your truth with a voice that’s finally yours again. You’re not healed all the way, but you are healing. And that counts.

We’re learning that power doesn’t mean pretending nothing hurts. That softness is sacred. That honesty is stronger than silence. You’re remembering your worth as a mother, a business owner, a writer, and most importantly as the woman Daddy saw when he looked at you. And though he’s not here to say it, I promise you: he would be proud.

He would laugh when the kids do something outrageous and remind you it’s genetic. He would beam at your devotion to them. He might still be nudging you about marriage, sure. But only because he believed in your ability to be loved the right way: without shrinking, without hiding, without grieving alone.

And if you’re wondering how he lives on after all this time, here’s the secret you’ve always known deep down:

A man is not truly dead until he is forgotten.

You remember that, don’t you? You’ve lived that line every day since he left, so have your siblings. You keep him alive by teaching Ari the games he once taught you. You keep him alive when you tell stories to your kids, to your friends, to strangers who didn’t know who he was — but learn through you. You keep him alive every time you write. Every time you choose truth. Every time you forgive yourself for not knowing how to carry that kind of loss at twenty.

Eighteen years later, you’re still his daughter. Still dreaming. Still becoming. But now — finally — you’re stepping into the woman he raised you to be.

Bold. Audacious. Poised. Proud.

Afro and Indigenous.

Deeply feeling.

Fully alive.