Under Grumpa's Hat

My dear children,

As I sit down to write this, I’m reminded of all the moments we’ve shared—the bedtime stories, the scraped knees bandaged with care, the tearful teenage heartbreaks, and the proud victories at graduations and games. For decades, my greatest purpose was to guide you, to teach you everything I knew, and to wrap your world in love and safety. I gave you, to the best of my abilities, the tools to face life’s challenges, to know right from wrong, to build resilience, and to carry kindness in your hearts. Now, as I watch you navigate adulthood with strength and grace, I know that my work as your anchor, your teacher and protector, is more limited.

You’ve grown into remarkable adults. You’re out of the nest now, soaring on your own wings. And what wings they are! Remember the metaphor: “The bird perched on the branch doesn’t trust the branch—it trusts its wings.” I see now how deeply those words apply to you. You’ve built lives of your own, charting paths I couldn’t have imagined for you. You’re living fully in your present, shaping futures bright with possibility. While I’ll always be here to listen or advise, I know you no longer need me to hold the branch steady. You were born to fly.

But here’s what I need to tell you: Life, as you know, hasn’t always been gentle with me. The years of parenting, of giving every ounce of myself to your happiness and safety, of weathering my own storms while shielding you from the worst of them, have left their marks. I don’t say this as a regret—every sacrifice was a privilege. But time has a way of teaching us hard truths. At my age, the runway ahead grows shorter each day. I’ve lived more years than I have left, and I feel the weight of that truth in my bones.

So, I’ve made a decision: I’m trading proximity for peace.

This isn’t a farewell, nor is it a withdrawal of love. It’s simply time for me to find a sanctuary—a place where my soul can rest, away from the noise and stress that have gnawed at me over the years. My health, while still stable, won’t stay this way forever. Before life’s inevitable twilight deepens, I want to spend my remaining years in quiet contentment: waking to birdsong, watching the sunrise and sunset, trading the snow shovels for gardening tools without the buzz of a hectic world. I need space to reflect, to heal old wounds, and to savour the stillness I’ve rarely allowed myself. I have felt that with the Pura Vida lifestyle of Costa Rica.

Please don’t mistake this for distance of the heart. My love for you is boundless, and nothing—not miles, not time—could ever change that. But just as I taught you to prioritize your well-being, I’m now learning to practice what I’ve preached. This move isn’t about leaving you; it’s about honouring the part of me that’s spent decades pouring into others. I’m trusting my wings now, too—the ones that carried me through parenthood, loss, and life’s relentless storms—to carry me toward peace.

I’ll still write these posts, sharing lessons life taught me too late, or reminders of what matters most. And I’ll always be here—a phone call, a video chat, or a porch visit away. But I hope you’ll understand that this chapter is about gentleness, not guilt; about gratitude, not goodbye.

You’ve made me prouder than words could ever capture. Now, as I prepare for my own “last stretch,” I ask only for your support, as I’ve always given you mine. Let’s celebrate this new phase together—you, thriving in your independence; me, finding joy in simplicity.

After all, the bird with the strongest wings doesn’t fear new horizons. It simply learns to trust the wind.

With all my love,
Dad

P.S. The branch will always be here if you need it. But I know—you’ve got wings.