At 93 years old, my father still wears the weight of life on his shoulders with more grace than most of us ever will. But these days, behind the soft blue of his eyes and the deeply etched lines on his face, is a constant companion—pain. The kind of pain that creeps in slowly, lingers, and begins to rob even the smallest moments of peace. And though he may not always speak of it, I see it. I feel it. I live it alongside him.
advertisement
At 93 years old, my father still wears the weight of life on his shoulders with more grace than most of us ever will. But these days, behind the soft blue of his eyes and the deeply etched lines on his face, is a constant companion—pain. The kind of pain that creeps in slowly, lingers, and begins to rob even the smallest moments of peace. And though he may not always speak of it, I see it. I feel it. I live it alongside him.
This photo was taken on an ordinary day. He was buckled into the front seat of the car, sunlight spilling through the windshield and casting sharp streaks of light across his face and shirt. He looked up at me—not with complaint, but with a quiet strength, a silent endurance. His shirt read “OHANA,” a Hawaiian word meaning family—a symbol of everything he has given his life to protect and provide. But behind the colors and light, was the stark truth: my father is hurting.
Age has taken its toll. His body has grown fragile. Muscles that once lifted children and built homes now struggle to lift a spoon. The hands that once held mine with unshakeable steadiness now tremble slightly, and the voice that used to sing lullabies now breaks under the weight of breathlessness. But still, he goes on. He never asks why. He never complains. He simply endures.
That pain, though invisible to most, is all too real to me. I see it in the way he winces as he shifts in his seat, how he grips the armrest when we hit a bump in the road. I hear it in his sighs when he thinks no one is listening. And yet, he always tells me he’s fine. He lies through the pain to protect me. That’s the kind of man he is—always thinking of others before himself.
Watching someone you love suffer is a helpless feeling. Especially when it’s someone who once seemed invincible to you. My father was my hero—still is—and watching him grow older and weaker is a kind of grief that doesn’t come with a funeral. It’s a slow mourning, a daily ache that comes with every new limitation he faces, every new symptom, every new medication.
I remember the man who carried me on his shoulders, who could fix anything with his hands, who worked overtime to make sure I had everything I needed. He gave me strength, courage, and a moral compass. He was the kind of dad who would attend every school event, rain or shine, tired or not. He built a life of sacrifice, not for recognition, but because that’s what love meant to him.
Now, the roles have reversed. I buckle his seatbelt. I steady his hands. I read his prescriptions. I drive him to appointments. I listen when he needs to talk, and sit in silence when the words are too heavy for him to say. It’s a kind of love that tests your spirit. To be a caregiver is to give without asking in return. And while it’s exhausting—emotionally, mentally, and physically—it’s also the most profound expression of love I’ve ever known.
There are days when it breaks me. When I sit in my room and cry because I don’t know how much longer he’ll be here. Because I don’t know how to ease his suffering. Because I wish I could trade places with him. And there are moments when I wonder if I’m doing enough, being enough. But then, he looks at me with eyes full of gratitude, and I know that just being there—just being present—is everything.
Pain doesn’t just affect the body; it isolates the soul. It can make you feel forgotten, burdensome, and trapped in your own skin. That’s why I never let him feel alone. Even if all I can do is hold his hand or sit quietly beside him, I do it. Because love, in its truest form, is simply being there.
This journey has taught me things I never expected to learn. I’ve learned patience beyond measure. I’ve learned how to cherish the tiniest joys—like a good day where he laughs, or a moment when the pain eases. I’ve learned that love is stronger than fear, and that presence matters more than perfection. And I’ve learned that sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is simply endure.
My dad may be 93, but to me, he is timeless. He’s the history of our family, the keeper of stories, the root of our values. He may be in pain, but he is still teaching me lessons every day. Lessons in humility, in strength, and in unwavering devotion.
So when I look at this photo, I don’t just see an old man in pain. I see a warrior. I see a father who never gave up. I see love in its purest, rawest form. And I see myself—his child—still learning, still growing, still grateful for every moment we share.
No matter how difficult this road gets, I will walk it with him. Because he walked every road with me. And now, it’s my turn.
advertisement
Watch Video Below