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“If you’re lost, you can look, and you will find me…”

Even with him on the other side, I know this to be true.

Some dreams are just dreams. Others? Visitations. We’ve talked.

“If you fall, I will catch you; I’ll be waiting…”

Honestly, I think I’ve sidestepped countless pitfalls because his voice still finds me at crucial moments.

The truth is, we clashed—hard—for most of my life. I didn’t fully appreciate his energy until my late 20s.

A major turning point? The Artist’s Way.

Working through exercises in that book, trying to find my voice and dismantle my own mental barriers, I had a realization: every creative impulse in me had been shaped by him.

He introduced me to fairy tales and fantasy stories. He encouraged me to write and illustrate. We grew up watching comedies with him. He remembered witnessing the exact moment humor clicked for me. If my mother shaped who I am as a woman, my father shaped who I am as an artist.

That softened me.

It helped me accept the parts of him that were rigid, controlling, stubborn—a product of his time. I let go of resentment when I understood that he wasn’t built to handle the weirdness that is Katina. So, I stopped expecting him to.

Instead, I connected with his intent rather than his actions.

And in doing so, something shifted.

He calmed down.

He stopped trying to steer me. Instead, he just wanted me to see where he was coming from.

With the tension gone, he was able to break off pieces of his wisdom to share with me, much like one breaks bread to share with a close friend.

We enjoyed the exchange of perspectives, engaged in debates to the tune of 17th-century salons in Paris, and discovered that while we agreed on many principles, we didn’t always agree on how best to execute them―and that was okay.

More conversations meant more opportunities to laugh. He loved the way I’d turn ordinary events into extraordinary punchlines. He’d tell me how things were going at work, and by the end of my commentary, he’d be wheezing with laughter. “You really should be a stand-up comedian, Tina!” He meant it, too.

More conversations also meant the discovery of an unsettling pattern.

I came to learn that much of his life had been defined by a series of blindsiding events. So many of his beautiful plans had been undone by brutal realities.

This is perhaps why the tendency to control permeated his parenting style. He tried so hard to steer us (his kids) to safety, into enlightenment, into power, into autonomy―the irony of it all is not lost on me.

His plans to retire back home, Martinique, were thwarted by cancer: another blindsiding event.

At first diagnosis, it was terminal.

No option to treat. No time to plan. No chance to fight.

It spread like wildfire in his body. But there was one thing he insisted on: he wanted to go home before going Home.

He orchestrated a clandestine trip to Martinique—one I doubted he could endure once we uncovered his plan. But he did. He took his last breath on his terms, leaving Earth from the same place he first entered it.

Before his departure, he gave us his wisdom, condensed to its purest form.

His final lesson?

Resist the illusion of control.

“You spend your whole life trying to control things, controlling your life and where you want it to go. You’re in control of nothing. It’s an illusion.”

In other words, some lessons cannot be avoided, nor the events that will bring them to you. No matter how well you play your cards.

So make your plans.

Set your intentions.

Be a good steward of what is in your hands.

But when a life event rolls through like a wrecking ball—something that threatens, or succeeds, in upending everything under “your control”—look for the lesson in it.

Grow from it. Be thankful for it.

You will evolve because of it.

(Shared with you in honor of Dan Bertrand, who crossed over on this day eight years ago.)