The Man Who Chose Us

 

Not all families begin with blood.

Sometimes they begin with a decision.

To show up.

To stay.

To keep choosing someone even when you don’t have to.

I was wired differently from a young age. My mind moved fast. I questioned everything. I picked up patterns quickly and made strange connections that other people didn’t always understand. I was sensitive to energy in the room, intense in my curiosity, and restless in my search for meaning. I could read people better than I could read myself, and that came with a weight I didn’t know how to name back then.

When our mom remarried, we didn’t just gain a new adult in the house. We gained someone who was willing to learn who we were without needing to control it. He never labeled me or told me to settle down. He didn’t try to box me in. He gave me space to think. To explore. To be strange, intense, smart, quiet, difficult, and driven. He let me be me. He gave me the freedom to figure things out my way, even when it didn’t make sense to him.

We didn’t call him Dad out loud. Not at home. Not to his face. But we did when we introduced him to other people. We used the word when it mattered. And even if we never said it directly to him, I think he knew. We meant it.

He earned that place by being consistent. By showing up when things got hard. By reminding us that life takes effort, and effort matters. He believed that if you were going to do a job half-assed, you might as well not do it at all. Whatever you take on, you give it your best. That was the standard he lived by, and he never had to raise his voice to prove it. He showed it in how he treated our mom, in how he carried himself, and in how he stayed.

It wasn’t a fairytale. Life was complicated. There were struggles, tensions, and a few disappointments. But there was also love. Real, steady, earned love. He treated us like his own not because he had to, but because he chose to. And looking back now, I see just how much that choice shaped me.

He showed me what it means to be accountable, even when your brain works differently. He helped me understand that having a unique mind doesn’t mean the rules don’t apply, but it also doesn’t mean I’m broken. He taught me that emotions are valid, but they do not get to lead every decision. That love is more than a feeling. It is presence. It is consistency. It is what you do when no one is watching.

And I carry that with me.

There is a lot of talk about childhood trauma, about what we didn’t get, about who let us down. But sometimes, if you pause and look clearly, you can see the people who stepped in when they didn’t have to. People who changed everything just by staying.

I think about that a lot. Especially when I remember my wedding night. I had a chance to say all of this. To thank him. To put into words what he had done for me and what it meant to be raised by someone who chose me. But I didn’t. Not because I didn’t care, and not because I forgot. The moment was loud, emotional, crowded. I was the centre of attention, and my brain was overloaded. It was too much input all at once, and I froze. That is part of being wired differently too. So I never said it. But I’ve thought about it ever since.

This is me saying it now.

He wasn’t the one who gave me life.

But he helped me live it.

And that made all the difference.

I love you, Dad.