My Dad

When Tomorrow Becomes Today: A Son's Journey Through Memory, Love, and Time

My dad doesn't remember me anymore... and it hurts in ways I never imagined possible.

I just returned from visiting him—my eighty-one-year-old father who raised me, taught me, shaped who I am—and very few people asked how I felt about watching the man who gave me life slowly forget mine. But here's what happened during our time together that changed everything about how I see memory, presence, and the precious gift of now.

We had the most beautiful conversation about how plants grow. His eyes lit up with the same passion I remember from childhood as he shared the wisdom that gave me my green thumb. We talked about his neighbors, the small details of his daily world that still matter to him. And when I brought up memories of his adventures—Hawaii, the Philippines, Kwajalein Island during those overseas years in the sixties—something magical happened. His eyes opened bright with wonder, amazed that I knew these stories he'd almost forgotten himself.

The Stranger in the Mirror

What I'm experiencing with my father reflects something psychologist Hal Hershfield has spent years studying: how we often see our future selves as strangers. His groundbreaking research reveals that people typically feel as disconnected from their future selves as they do from complete strangers. But watching my dad navigate his world with childlike joy in each moment, I'm discovering something profound about the relationship between our present and future selves.

Hershfield's work shows that when we can't connect with our future selves, we make decisions that serve us poorly in the long run. We skip exercise, avoid difficult conversations, postpone meaningful experiences. Sound familiar? I certainly recognize myself in this pattern—especially when I think about all those times I could have visited my dad "next month" or "when things slow down."

Every Moment is Brand New

Here's what strikes me most about my father's current state: every moment is genuinely brand new for him, and every experience brings incredible joy. There's something beautifully mindful about how he exists now—fully present in ways that those of us carrying the weight of memory and future worry rarely achieve.

This aligns perfectly with what mindfulness experts teach us about living in the present moment. My dad has become an unintentional master of the practice. He's not ruminating about past regrets or anxious about future uncertainties. He's simply here, now, finding wonder in plant growth and neighborhood stories.

The Gift of Impermanence

As I look ahead thirty-plus years and wonder if I'll be like him—faded memories mixed with childlike experiences of the present—I'm learning to hold both the pain and the gift of this reality. Witnessing my father in this state is indeed a double-edged sword of joy and pain, but with love, I'm learning to embrace both him and my possible future self.

Hershfield's research suggests that when we can vividly imagine and connect with our future selves, we make better decisions today. But my dad is teaching me something equally important: sometimes our future selves might be happier than we imagine, finding joy in simplicities we currently overlook.

Building Bridges Across Time

The personal development experts are right—we are all works in progress, continuously evolving. But my father's journey is showing me that growth doesn't always look like we expect. Sometimes it means letting go. Sometimes it means finding new ways to connect. Sometimes it means discovering that love transcends memory.

I'm learning to define my future self not just through goals and achievements, but through presence and connection. I'm building the habit of showing up—really showing up—for the people I love while they still remember me, and even when they don't.

Because here's what I know now: the conversations about plant growth, the stories about neighbors, the wonder in his eyes when I share his own forgotten adventures—these moments are teaching me that connection doesn't require memory. Love doesn't need recognition to be real.

My dad may not remember me anymore, but in his presence, I'm remembering what truly matters. And maybe that's the most important lesson about our future selves we can learn: not just who we'll become, but how we'll love along the way.

In embracing both the joy and pain of watching someone we love change, we discover that our future selves—whatever they may hold—are worthy of our love and preparation today.

 

Mahalo and Aloha 🤙🏽

 

About the Author: Ðean is a multi-disciplinary creative professional who combines artistry with automated business systems. After overcoming significant personal and financial setbacks, he now helps other creative professionals build stable income streams that provide time freedom for their passions. His approach combines the Hawaiian principles of Kokua (helping others) and Ohana (family) with proven direct response marketing strategies.