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Living Without Fear - The Day My Father Changed Again | With Esther Buerki · LIVING WITHOUT FEAR

• 0:16
  Welcome back, my dear friends, to the 128th solo episode of
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  Living Without Fear. I'm Mr. Brookie, your host from
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  Switzerland, and I'm so grateful that you're here with me today,
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  listening with an open heart. You know, I always want to share
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  with you my most personal stories, the ones that don't
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  always look shiny on the surface but carry within them the
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  deepest lessons. Because I truly believe that
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  when we open up about our own struggles, we give others
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  permission to be real too. Today, I want to open my heart
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  again and tell you a story about my father.
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  It is a story about change, about hope and about love that
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  sometimes hides on the layers of pain, but that can still find
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  its way back even when we think it's come forever.
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  When my mom passed away in February this year, my father
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  changed in a way that broke my heart.
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  He became negative, bitter and sometimes very mean to me.
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  People around me told me this is dementia, this is what happens.
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  You shouldn't expect things to get better.
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  Nobody told me that there might be still hope.
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  Nobody said he could change again.
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  And so I was devastated. For weeks I called him every
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  single day. I wanted to make sure he felt he
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  was not alone. For weeks I drove one hour each
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  way to visit him at the elderly home.
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  And yet every visit seemed to make me feel worse.
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  Instead of welcoming me, he accused me of not loving him.
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  He told me I wasn't kind to him, that I wasn't enough.
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  Those words pierced me deeply. Because in the last years we
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  have built such a beautiful closeness.
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  A closeness I never thought we could reach.
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  You see, in the past, my father was a very severe man.
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  When I was a teenager and later a young woman, he didn't show
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  appreciation for the things I did.
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  He couldn't tell me he loved me. Back then, I thought he simply
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  didn't care. But later, when I read his
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  memoirs, the ones he entrusted to me, I finally understood.
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  In those pages, he shared the loneliness of his own childhood,
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  how little love he had received from his parents.
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  And suddenly it became clear he loved me the only way he knew
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  how. For him, love meant I give you
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  something and you give me back the same amount.
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  That was his way of measuring. It wasn't tenderness or words of
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  affection, But in his own way, he did love me.
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  He simply couldn't do it differently.
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  In the last few years, though, something shifted between us.
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  Our relationship began to bloom. I started to adore my father, to
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  see him not only as the stern man of my childhood, but as
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  someone who shared so much with me.
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  We discovered our common love for art, for books, for
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  languages. I remember when I was in Paris,
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  he suddenly started learning French.
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  At the time, I felt like he was stealing my language.
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  Later, he improved his English as well.
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  And today I realized he was not stealing anything.
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  He was trying to come closer to me.
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  That was his way of saying, I want to be part of your world.
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  And over the last months, this connection became even stronger
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  when we began clearing the family house.
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  My father has hundreds and hundreds of books, treasures
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  from his lifelong curiosity. We carried them to his room in
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  the elderly home, and soon I had to order two or more shelves for
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  him each visit. I handed him book after book,
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  reading the titles aloud, watching his eyes light up with
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  recognition. And suddenly I saw his world of
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  books was also my world. He had read the philosophers I
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  once studied, the thinkers who shaped my mind.
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  In those moments, side by side, deciding which books to keep, I
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  felt a closeness I had never known before.
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  Then something miraculous happened.
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  About two months ago, he began reading again.
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  He picked up the books he had always planned to read someday,
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  and this time he didn't just collect them, he opened them
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  slowly, Slowly, he changed. His mind grew sharper, his words
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  kinder. He began to notice the good
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  things around him. He spoke positively about the
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  people in the elderly home. And when we walk together now,
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  he smiles broadly at the other residents, especially at the
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  ladies. For me, this change feels like a
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  resurrection. Yesterday, he surprised me by
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  mentioning a gift I had given him nearly 40 years ago, a
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  journal with blank pages inside. I had written a note.
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  I know you like writing. You didn't become an author.
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  You became a mathematician. And much more.
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  But you could still write here. It doesn't have to be your
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  memoirs. It can be something smaller.
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  Even then, as a young woman, I felt his secret longing to be an
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  author, and life brought it full circle.
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  I fulfilled my dream of becoming a writer, publishing my book
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  Living Without Fear, and last year he fulfilled his own dream
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  when I published his memoirs, the book that is now being read
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  in the elderly home and beyond. I cannot describe the pride I
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  feel. I'm proud of him.
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  I'm proud of us. Through all the hardship,
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  through all the pain, my father has shaped me.
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  He made me strong. He made me search for deeper
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  meaning in life. He forced me, sometimes
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  painfully, to become more authentic.
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  And after my mom's death, when I thought he was lost to me
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  forever, I see now that life still had another chapter for
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  us. And this is what I want to tell
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  you, my dear listeners. Even when it looks like there is
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  no hope, even when someone you love seems completely lost, it
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  is never too late. Change is possible.
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  I admit, A few months ago, I gave up.
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  I let go of my father. In my heart, I said goodbye to
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  the kind, caring version of him that I carried in my memory.
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  And when he was mean to me, I tried to hold on to that version
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  in my mind, even if I couldn't see it in front of me anymore.
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  But now, as I watch him reading his books on philosophy, smiling
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  with joy, talking with new clarity, I feel like I have my
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  father back, and this time, I cherish him even more.
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  Hope is always the better choice than despair.
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  Always. And if you're going through
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  something similar, if someone you love seems unreachable,
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  please hold on. Keep hope alive, because
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  sometimes change comes quietly, like a seed breaking open in the
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  dark and suddenly there it is, a green shoot, a new beginning.
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  Today I'm full of gratitude and above all, I am full of joy.
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  If you feel called to work with me, please reach out.
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  I would love to help you breakthrough all patterns and
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  step into your power with ease and laugh.
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  Thank you for letting me share this very personal story with
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  you. It means so much to me to know
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  that my voice reaches your heart.
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  Until next week, keep living without fear.