I met my second stepdad when I was almost 18. By then, I’d built walls around my heart, but he didn’t try to tear them down—he just showed up, goofy and kind, especially to my mom. He taught me how to lift weights, cheered me on, and made me laugh when I didn’t want to. He wasn’t trying to be my dad—he was just being himself. And somehow, that was exactly what I needed.
He became a friend to all of us. My siblings adored him. He’d make pancakes on Sundays, flex his biceps like a cartoon character, and tell stories that made no sense but always made us laugh. He was the kind of man who made a house feel like home.
When he passed last May, it felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. Grief came in waves—sometimes gentle, sometimes brutal. I kept expecting him to walk through the door with that ridiculous grin and a new protein shake recipe.
Moving forward has been hard. The gym feels quieter. The kitchen feels colder. But I carry him with me—in the way I spot someone at the bench press, in the way I comfort my siblings, in the way I love my mom.
He didn’t raise me from childhood, but he showed up when I needed someone most. And that kind of love leaves a mark deeper than time. I still hear his laugh in my head sometimes, and it reminds me to keep going.
He wasn’t just my stepdad. He was my friend, my coach, my safe place. And even though he’s gone, he’s still helping me lift the weight of life—one rep at a time.
