Eight years ago, in 2017, my dad and I had our last conversation—and I didn’t know it would be the last. His death was sudden. There were no prior goodbyes, no long talks that eased us into the idea of life without him. One day he was there, and then he wasn’t. The kind of loss that doesn’t arrive with warning doesn’t just break your heart; it rearranges your world.

I replay that final conversation more than I’d like to admit, not because it was dramatic, but because it became permanent. When you don’t get a chance to prepare, you start searching for meaning in the ordinary. You cling to the last words, the last tone of voice, the last moment you were simply father and child in a normal day. And somewhere in the shock of it all, I made a promise: I told him I’d become a lawyer.

At the time, it felt like the only thing I could control—something solid in a moment that suddenly had none. Grief doesn’t always look like tears. Sometimes it looks like determination. Sometimes it looks like showing up again and again when you’re not sure you have anything left. I carried that promise quietly and stubbornly, even on the days I doubted myself, even on the days when I couldn’t imagine finishing what I started.

Life didn’t pause to accommodate my loss. It kept moving—fast, messy, indifferent. And I had to learn to move with it. I brought law books with me to Oxford and studied in between everything because I couldn’t let that promise fade. I studied in the margins: after long days, before early mornings, in waiting rooms, in borrowed quiet, in the small pockets of time most people don’t notice. It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t always consistent. But it was mine.

This was my first time taking the bar, and I walked into it thinking of him the whole way through. Not as pressure, but as presence. A reminder that love doesn’t end just because someone does. A reminder that the people we lose can still be part of what we build.

When I finally got to put “Atty.” before my name, it didn’t feel like a victory lap. It felt like a breath I’d been holding for years. More than eight years later, I was able to say what I’d been working toward in silence: Dad, I kept my word.

This journey taught me things I wish I’d learned earlier. First: It is not a race. Do it at your own time. Grief already makes you feel late to everything. Don’t add to that by measuring your progress against someone else’s timeline. Slow growth is still growth.

Second: When people tell you, you can’t do it, it’s important you don’t believe them. Some opinions are just projections — other people’s limits dressed up as advice. Protect your purpose. Not everyone will understand why you keep going, especially when your reasons are personal. Keep going anyway.

Third: Hard work matters, but not just for the outcome. Focus on the journey and not just the final result. The title is meaningful, but what’s even more meaningful is who you become while earning it—disciplined, resilient, and able to stand back up when life knocks the air out of you.

I didn’t get a goodbye. I didn’t get closure the way people imagine it. But I got a promise—and I kept it. Dad, you can finally rest in peace. And for anyone carrying a promise born out of sudden loss: keep going. One day, you’ll look up and realize the most important thing you earned wasn’t a title at all.

You will be proud of the person you become.