As we go into the holidays, I’m looking forward to spending quality time with my family and reflecting on a year of tremendous wins and some very difficult times. I hope that you can do the same – slow down, reflect, and spend time with loved ones – and truly stay present.

Taking stock and being in the moment feels more important than ever for me this year. This past summer I lost my father, a person who was truly larger than life. My dad raised me and my four siblings on his own – and in the process, showed me what it means to be a tough and compassionate leader. It’s my dad more than anyone who has guided and inspired me.

Over the next few weeks, I’ll be sharing a few of the lessons I learned from him and how they’ve shaped who I’ve become. Chief among them is showing up – even when you don’t want to, even when you’re exhausted, and even when you have a million other things to do.

You see, my dad was a firefighter. For forty years, my father answered the bell. Every single time it rang, he rose to meet whatever challenge awaited—because that’s what firefighters do. They don’t get to have bad days.

When most people have a rough morning, they might call in sick or go through the motions. But not my dad, he didn’t have that luxury. When that alarm sounds, someone’s worst day becomes his responsibility. Someone’s emergency becomes his mission. Dad understood this from the very beginning, and he carried that weight with honor for four decades.

A firefighter’s code is written not in books, but in action. It’s found in the split-second decisions made in smoke-filled rooms. It’s in the choice to run toward danger when everyone else runs away. It’s in putting a stranger’s life before your own comfort, your own safety, and your own family. Dad didn’t just know this code—he lived it, breathed it, and brought it home with him.

But Dad was more than just a firefighter who served his community—he was a man who often carried the enormous weight of raising five children. The pressure of that responsibility, the inevitable mistakes that come with being human, the daily struggle to be everything we needed—this was perhaps his greatest test of character.

When other fathers finished their workday and came home to rest, Dad’s day was only just beginning. After a long shift of responding to emergencies, and carrying the stress of life-and-death decisions, he couldn’t simply walk through our front door and collapse into a chair. He had to transform—from firefighter to father, to mother, to coach, to cook, to homework helper, to disciplinarian, and comfort-giver. His shift at the firehouse ended, but his shift at home never did.

The same hands that pulled people from burning buildings also braided hair, packed lunches, and wiped away tears. The same mind that made split-second tactical decisions also had to navigate parent-teacher conferences, food on the table, and the complex emotional needs of five growing children. The courage that carried him up burning staircases also gave him strength to face the daily challenges of being a father alone —challenges that would have broken lesser men.

Was it always perfect? No. Did he sometimes struggle to separate the stress and intensity of his work from the softness needed at home? Yes. Did he make mistakes? Of course—he did. But even in those imperfect moments, he was teaching us. He showed us that strength sometimes looks like admitting when you’re overwhelmed, that love sometimes comes wrapped in exhaustion, and that doing your best doesn’t mean being perfect.

In the same way my dad showed up for people in their greatest time of need and for us, we were expected to show up for others. Dad made us show up to countless family events—graduations for cousins we barely spent time with, family gatherings when we’d rather be anywhere else, occasions where we grumbled and complained about having to get dressed up and be there. As kids, we didn’t understand why we had to attend every single event, why we couldn’t just skip this one.

But in retrospect, that’s one of the greatest lessons of all—showing up even when you’re tired, even when you don’t want to, even when it would be easier to make excuses and stay home. Dad always showed up. Always on time. You could depend on that consistency like you could depend on the sunrise. Even if, as kids, we sometimes secretly wished he would be just a little late so we could sleep in a little longer.

That lesson lives in all of us today. It’s why we’re here now, together, showing up for him and for each other when it matters most. We learned that presence is a gift you give to others, that reliability is a form of love, and that sometimes the most important thing you can do is simply be there.