“The Wisdom Passed down”

There are words that a parent can speak that don’t fully bloom until long after they’re spoken. At first, they sound like riddles. Later, like echoes. And sometimes, if we’re lucky, they come back to us like prophecy.

My father used to say, “I would never want to remove the pain and suffering of my life—it’s what gives you character.”

I didn’t agree.

Not then.

Back then, pain felt like a thief—stealing joy, staining the beauty of my days. I wanted to be rid of it, not grateful for it. I wanted lightness, not lessons. I wanted ease, not evolution.

But now I know:

Pain is not the enemy.

It’s the sculptor.

It shapes you in ways you can’t shape yourself. It carves depth into your soul, and leaves behind a strength you didn’t ask for—but come to treasure.

And my dad… he always knew that.

He held his life gently, even the hard parts. Which he had. I used to think he was too accepting. Too willing to sit with what was. But now I see—it wasn’t passivity. It was wisdom. He knew that everything, even the heartache, was a brushstroke in the painting of who you become.

I see it now.

I see how the very things I thought would undo me… made me.

How grief matured my gratitude.

How suffering softened my sharp edges.

How when I felt lost… was what helped me find myself.

This part of my father’s logic used to feel distant, like something I’d never want to adopt. But life has a way of proving the quietest truths. The kind that don’t shout—but remain, waiting for you to come home to them.

He would never trade his suffering.

And now, neither would I.

Because without it, I wouldn’t be who I am.

And somehow, he always knew.