When I was six years old, a sobbing and inconsolable mess, you told me to breathe.

Just breathe.

In and out.

Simple enough, right?

I remember it being quiet, even though I’m sure everything was loud and chaotic.

But the stillness of your voice cut through all the noise.

I think about that moment a lot.

In my almost eighteen years, I’ve seen some things.

I’ve seen things that have changed me forever.

I have heard things that have made me want to crawl into a hole and shut everyone away.

I’ve lost things, people, sanity, even.

I’ve watched the people I love do some of the most hurtful things.

And I breathe.

I listen to the very quiet voice in my head, cutting through the screaming,

Telling me to just breathe.

And I listen.

Even now, after all these years.

When I am at my weakest moment when I feel there is nothing more I can do…

You told me to breathe at six years old…

And I can still manage that.

Yours is the voice in my head, telling me that I am good enough, that right or wrong, I must decide, that life sucks… But it is what is.

For every life lesson that you have taught me, this by far is the most important to me.

Because sometimes, life gets messy and it’s hard to breathe. And I have to fight just to suck in one breath.

But I breathe.

In and out.

Just like you taught me at six years old.

I love you, dad.