“MAKE GOOD ONES”
Love that remains, grief that lingers, and the memories that shape us.
I’ve never shared this part of my story publicly.
Not because I can’t talk about it — but because there is still love there. And I’ve always been careful not to let pain speak louder than gratitude.
But today feels like the right day.
Today is my dad’s birthday.
We haven’t spoken in years. And yet, every year when this day comes around, I feel it.
Not anger.
Not bitterness.
Grief.
The quiet kind.
The kind that exists alongside gratitude.
I’m sharing this because so much of what I believe about memories — about photographs — about showing up — was shaped here.
And maybe someone reading this needs permission to let love and pain coexist too.
The Father Who Raised Me
My dad raised me on his own from the time I was two years old until I was about fifteen. It was just the two of us for a long time.
He packed lunches.
He showed up to school things.
He figured it out.
He was steady. He was present. He was mine.
And then, suddenly, he wasn’t.
His exit from my life became permanent. No dramatic explosion. Just distance that never closed. And it broke my heart in a way that reshaped me.
There’s a version of my father that exists only in my childhood now. The incredible dad who raised me. The one who made me feel safe. The one who cheered me on.
That version doesn’t exist for me anymore.
But he did.
And that matters.
The White Carnation
When I was little, there was a florist about half a mile from our house. A straight shot down the road.
I would walk there by myself, feeling very grown up, and buy him a single white carnation — supposedly his favorite. More likely, it was just the most affordable option and he didn’t want me spending too much.
I would carry that flower home like it was the most important thing in the world.
I remember the excitement.
The pride.
The feeling of giving something to the person who gave me everything.
It’s funny how after all these years, that’s the memory that stays so vivid. Not the big holidays. Not the dramatic moments. Just a little girl with a white carnation walking home to her dad.
Grief and Gratitude Can Live Together
Estrangement is complicated.
You grieve someone who is still alive.
You miss a person who technically still exists.
You carry beautiful memories that no longer match your current reality.
And here’s what I want to say clearly: I didn’t deserve what happened. I don’t fully understand it. There are pieces that will probably never make sense to me.
But I have chosen something very intentional.
I have chosen to hold onto gratitude while holding space for the pain.
They can coexist.
I can miss him.
I can love him.
I can acknowledge the hurt.
And I can still be thankful for the years I had.
None of those cancel each other out.
We Never Know
We never know where life will go.
We never know which people will stay.
We never know which chapters will close unexpectedly.
We never know which ordinary Tuesday will one day become sacred in our memory.
That’s why I’m sharing this.
Because at the end of the day, our memories are what we carry.
They’re what shape us.
They’re what soften us.
They’re what steady us when things don’t turn out the way we imagined.
A Note I’ll Always Keep
There’s a handwritten note my dad gave me on my 18th birthday.
It says:
“To my lovely daughter Morgen on her 18th bday.
No father could be prouder than I am of you.
At the end of the race, memories are all that we have.
Make good ones.
Love Dad.”
And somehow, even now, that line feels like both a gift and a reminder.
“At the end of the race, memories are all that we have.”
He was right.
Why This Matters — To Me and To You
Maybe this is part of why I do what I do.
Because life changes.
Because people leave.
Because seasons shift.
Because nothing is guaranteed.
But a photograph holds a moment still.
It lets you revisit a version of someone.
It lets you remember what was good.
It lets you honor a season that shaped you.
You don’t always know in the moment which memories will become sacred later.
But I promise you — they will.
So take the photo.
Print the photo.
Get in the frame.
Love deeply while you can.
Because at the end of the race, memories really are all we have.
And sometimes… they are enough.
