A Letter to the Academy Graduate Who Raised Me
My Dearest Friend,
Today’s letter is a little different. With my father marking his forty-year Academy reunion, I am setting aside my usual words to you and instead writing to him. The United States Air Force Academy shaped him, and in turn, he helped shape me. In sharing these words, I hope you catch a glimpse of the legacies that ripple quietly through our families—and how they shape us still.
My Dearest Father,
You spent five years in Colorado Springs—four as a cadet, one as a cadet candidate at the Prep School—becoming the Academy graduate who would one day raise me. You never wore the ring, never fit the mold of a polished “ring knocker,” and you certainly didn’t make your way without struggle. You had a streak of mischief—quick to talk back when silence might have been easier, sometimes obstinate enough to land yourself in trouble, stumbled on more than a few tests, then redeemed yourself by excelling during summer school. You showed in those years that brilliance and stubbornness can be unlikely companions—and that sometimes, perseverance is its own kind of success. I can’t help but recognize that same streak in myself, carried forward into my own life.
From the time you were eight years old, you carried a singular dream—to fly helicopters. Against every obstacle, you made that dream a reality. That was your first love, your calling. It’s a remarkable ending for someone who grew up first on an island without cars and later in the Alaskan wilderness without indoor plumbing—you sometimes joke, with a smile, that it felt like growing up in the 1880s. Yet from those humble roots, you rose into the skies.
You built friendships at the Academy, but even more at flight school and those first duty stations. Those men and women became more than colleagues—they were the ones whose names and stories echoed through my childhood, whose loyalty to one another carried across years and miles. I learned early that in this life, friendship can stretch across decades and distance, becoming family in every sense but blood. That truth shaped the way I now live this military life, building bonds of my own with neighbors and friends who walk beside me just as yours once did for you.
You were never the stereotype of a military father. You were sometimes gruff, yes, but also steady, thoughtful, and quiet. From you I learned a love of country—not blind or unquestioning, but the kind that believes America can always rise higher, the kind that asks hard questions because true loyalty demands honesty. You showed me that leadership is not measured in deployments or medals, but in resilience, humility, and quiet faithfulness.
You often speak of your time in uniform, sharing stories of the good days and the days gone by. Among them is the memory of the helicopter crash—a day that will always stand apart. I remember you once questioning whether you could have done more, yet everyone who knows the story understands it was your steady hands and practiced skill that carried every soul safely home. When you tell it, the tone is never boastful; instead it is marked by humility, gratitude for the lives preserved, and the solemn weight of responsibility.
So as you return to the Academy for your forty-year reunion, may you see your legacy clearly—not in rings or ceremony, but in the life you’ve lived and the lessons you’ve passed down. It is alive in me, in the way I walk beside my husband in his own service, in the way I raise my children to honor their country with both loyalty and courage to question, and in the way I measure strength not by perfection, but by perseverance.
I am proud to be your daughter, and grateful to carry forward the legacy of service and resilience I inherited—from you, and from those who came before us.
With love,
Your Daughter
Thank you for allowing me to share this letter with you. In reading my words to my father, I hope you are reminded of the quiet legacies in your own life—the ways those who came before you continue to shape who you are and who you are becoming.
