My biggest regret about my dad

The conversations we never had are driving me to build deeper relationships with the people still in my life.

My dad on his birthday in 1966, with my brother, Bill, on the left and me on the right.

My father died two years ago today.

I often joke that my dad was 110 percent engineer — intelligent, meticulous and a little eccentric. He had a relentless work ethic and a deep sense of duty, always striving to do right by his family and neighbors.

Bud Stych was a good man. Here’s the obituary that I wrote about him.

My father and I loved each other and always had each other’s backs — but we were never truly close.

We were both at fault. Our interests rarely overlapped, and like many fathers and sons, we hit rough patches, especially during my teenage years. More than that, we were both introverts, unsure of how to build a deeper relationship.

After my mom passed in 2020, I made an effort to bridge that gap. I wrote him a 2,000-word letter, sharing my feelings, memories and regrets. His response? A short email that essentially said, “Thanks for the letter. I appreciate it.” He avoided conversations about the past or his emotions, and I struggled to break through.

That experience — and the regrets that came with it — has pushed me to be more intentional about deepening relationships with my children, family and friends. It’s not easy, especially when decades of habit have built walls. But it’s worth the effort.

Below is a short excerpt from the eulogy I gave at my father’s funeral. I spoke about my regrets — how I wished I had known him better — and my commitment to doing better with the people still in my life.

My passion for one-on-one conversations (or sometimes two-on-two along with Anne and another couple) is a big reason why I started this Substack. Most weeks, you’ll find me sharing two or three meals with family, friends or new acquaintances, always eager to learn more about their stories and lives.

So here’s my challenge to you: Reach out to someone you care about. Have a real conversation — one-on-one. Deepen the connection while you still can. It’s always worth it.

My dad and me with Anne and our three children. This was about 25 years ago in Minnesota.

Excerpt from my eulogy for my father

My father is dead. That makes me sad and emotional. But why?

I’m actually happy that he’s not suffering anymore. I’m happy that he could be living right now and for the rest of eternity with the Lord. I’m happy that he could be seeing Nancy again.

I’m happy that I can look at his completed life and see so many good things among the brokenness of this world.

So why am I sad?

It’s because any opportunity to get to know him — to REALLY know him — is gone … and gone forever.

My father was a private man, even among family members. Maybe especially among family members.

He was emotionally distant — and it was impossible to get inside his head or his heart.

He would be happy to talk about the peninsula or the boat or the railcar or to tell you another joke.

But he wasn’t going to talk much about his fears or his doubts or his joys or his memories.

A year ago I wrote him a 2,000-word letter to tell him how I felt about him, to tell him some of my favorite memories I had about him and me together, and about regrets I had about our relationship.

His response was a brief email that pretty much said: “Thanks for the letter. I appreciate it.”

In other words, he was glad to get it but didn’t want to talk about it.

He never wanted to appear vulnerable. He probably didn’t want to appear weak. He was probably afraid of getting hurt, or afraid of looking at the regrets and failures he had in his life.

I’m telling you this to encourage you to allow yourself to be vulnerable with the people you love — and maybe especially with the people who love you.

Write a letter, invite someone for coffee, or go for a one-on-one walk or drive.

One-on-one is usually the best.

I’m trying to do that with my own adult children, and I know it’s not easy — for me or for them.

But I also realized a year ago that I don’t want to get to the end of my life 20 or 30 years from now and have my children say, “I wish I knew my dad better.”

Because I can stand here today and tell you, I wish I knew my dad better — and I wish he knew me better.

But that window has closed on this side of heaven.