I Threw a Newspaper Into a Bush

I meant to send this yesterday. It was going to be a Father’s Day piece. But, well… life happened. I missed the mark. For a moment, I considered skipping it altogether—pretending I never planned to post it in the first place.

But then I heard my dad’s voice in my head.

It’s the same voice I heard on the very first day of my paper route, after I flung a newspaper across someone’s yard and watched it explode midair—Sports in the driveway, Comics in the hydrangeas, and me, pedaling away in a panic.

“You can’t just leave,” he said, calm and steady. “It’s okay. Just clean up your mess.”

So here I am, a day late—but showing up anyway. Because what I want to say is still true.

The Silent Understanding

My dad has never been one for grand speeches. His love showed up in quieter ways—like being in the audience for every play I was ever in, every concert I performed. Rain, snow, it didn’t matter—he was there, beaming in his own understated way.

That’s the kind of presence Ted is already beginning to offer. He’s still just a puppy, but he can already sense my moods. He sits by my feet when I’m overwhelmed and wiggles with joy when I walk through the door, no matter if I’ve been gone five minutes or five hours. There’s no performance needed—just showing up is enough.

Love Without Conditions

My dad has never measured love by achievement. He never needed a reason to be proud of me. It wasn’t about grades (as I proved over and over…lol) or awards or doing things “the right way.” It was about showing up, being kind, and doing my best—even when my best looked a little messy.

Ted, with his floppy ears and chaotic energy, is already teaching me the same thing. He doesn’t care if I’m productive or disheveled, organized or overwhelmed. He loves me when I’m centered, and he loves me when I’m scattered. That kind of steady affection reminds me that love isn’t earned—it’s given. Freely. Daily.

The Paper Route Incident 🗞️

When I was twelve, I had a paper route. My dad came with me on my first morning—just to help me get the hang of it. It was going great until I launched a newspaper toward a porch and watched it explode midair. Sections flew in all directions—the Comics drifting into the flowerbed, Sports flapping across the driveway like a broken kite. I panicked and started pedaling away as fast as I could.

But my dad stopped me.
“You can’t just leave,” he said, calm and steady. “It’s okay. Just clean up your mess.”

That sentence stuck. It still echoes in my head whenever I feel like running from something messy or uncomfortable. Whether it's a difficult conversation or a mistake I want to pretend didn’t happen—his voice is there, reminding me: It’s okay. Just clean it up.

The Protective Instinct

My dad’s not the dramatic, “storm the gates” kind of protector. But he’s always had this quiet way of making me feel safe. Not with big speeches or warnings—just by being steady, available, and paying attention to the things I didn’t know I needed help with until he was already there.

Ted’s version of that is a little more chaotic. He barks at the broom. He follows me from room to room like I might disappear at any second. He posts up by the door like it’s his job. It’s ridiculous and sweet—and somehow, it makes me feel looked after in the simplest way.

Teaching Through Example

My dad didn’t lecture about resilience—he lived it. I watched him face tough circumstances without spiraling, adapt when life threw curveballs, and move forward even when things didn’t go to plan. That quiet perseverance taught me more than any motivational speech ever could.

Ted is teaching me something too: presence. Puppies don’t dwell. They don’t worry about what happened yesterday or stress over what might happen tomorrow. Ted wakes up every morning thrilled to be alive, as if the world has been waiting just for him. He’s a walking reminder that joy doesn’t have to be complicated.

The Gift of Presence

In a world where distraction is the norm, my dad has always been the kind of person who makes you feel like you matter. He puts down the paper when you walk in. He actually listens. He notices the little things others miss.

Ted, of course, doesn’t have a phone or a to-do list, but he’s always fully there. When I walk into the room, his whole body reacts like it’s the best moment of the day. It’s a gift—one I’m trying to give more often myself.

Healing Through Connection

Studies back it up: positive father-child relationships are deeply tied to emotional well-being. And research shows petting a dog can reduce stress hormones and increase oxytocin—the “love” hormone. But we don’t need science to tell us what we already feel: these relationships anchor us. They tether us to something real.

They make the world feel just a little safer, a little warmer.

Grateful, Still

So this is my belated thank you—to the man who’s been there through every awkward concert and chaotic detour, and to the little pup who’s already learning to do the same. I’m grateful. Not just on Father’s Day, but the day after too. And every day after that.

If you’ve got a dad, a dog, or a memory that taught you how to love better—I’d love to hear your story. Just reply to this email or leave a comment.