One year ago today, my father, Mark Schlafman, passed away peacefully at the age of 80 after living with dementia for four years. On this anniversary, I decided to write him a letter expressing what’s alive in me right now.
Writing letters, whether to those still with us or to those we’ve lost, is an incredibly powerful tool for expression and healing. It allows us to say the things we might have left unsaid, to connect with emotions we may not have fully processed, and to honor the relationships that shape us. I’ve found it to be one of the most cathartic practices, and I encourage anyone navigating grief or transitions to try it.
Here’s the letter I wrote.
Dear Dad,
I find it hard to believe it’s already been a year since you passed. So much has happened in the past twelve months, but not a day goes by that I don’t think of you.
Every time I see a bird soaring high in the sky I think of you. In those moments, I feel your presence, as if you're watching over me. It’s like your spirit is with me, reminding me that you’re always here, even though you’re gone.
I’ve let go of the anger and resentment I once held. It took me a while to get here, but now, what’s left is love and appreciation. Over time, I’ve come to understand that holding on to those powerful emotions only kept me further from feeling connected to you.
Yet, over this past year, I’ve often told myself that I’ve worked through my grief—only to find that in quiet moments, or during breathwork, more of it surfaces—grief I hadn’t yet touched. And alongside that grief are the longings: things I wish I’d said, questions I wish I’d asked, moments I wish we shared.
There are so many things I kept inside because I was afraid of how you might react, and for a long time, that fear held me back. But through my own healing, I’ve learned to honor that fear instead of pushing it away. I realize now it was a part of me trying to protect itself, and I’ve come to accept it with compassion. Deep down, all I ever really wanted was love and acceptance.
On the days when I miss you most, I pick up my phone and listen to old recordings of you talking. Hearing your voice takes me back, and I find myself clinging to the stories you’d share about your days as an NBA referee. I know how much those memories meant to you, and they mean even more to me now than I think you ever knew. I just wish I had more of them to hold on to.
Earlier this year, I took a leap and started a company. I’m finally pursuing something I’ve dreamed of for a long time, and I know you’d be proud—not just of the work I’m doing, but of the life I’m building at home too. We’ve created a beautiful life in the woods, and I feel like it’s the kind of life you would have wanted for us.
The girls are growing up so fast—Faye is almost six, and Florence is two. Faye asks about you often. I see so much of you in them—in the way the light hits them just right, in their spirit, their energy, and their love for life. It feels like a part of you is still here, living on through them.
Whenever I face a hard problem or feel stuck, I often find myself asking, “What advice would Dad give me right now?” It amazes me how your words still seem to guide me, as if you’re offering those countless nuggets of wisdom at just the right moment. Even now, it’s as though your voice gently reassures me, helping me find clarity when I need it most.
I’m deeply grateful that I had the chance to say goodbye and forgive you in person, to confront all those intense emotions head-on before you passed. I believe that’s why, now, all that’s left is love and appreciation. In letting go of the hurt, I made space for the memories that truly matter. I carry you with me in everything I do.
I just want to say I love you, I miss you, and I hope you’ve found peace. We’ll be visiting you this weekend, and I’m looking forward to that quiet moment of connection when I can say hi again.
Love always,
Steve
