It’s been ten years since Interstellar came out, and every time I rewatch it, I discover something new. This time, one line stood out to me more than it ever had before:
“Once you’re a parent, you’re the ghost of your children’s future.”
That line hit differently now that I’m a father myself. It’s a reminder that everything we teach our kids—the way we carry ourselves, the lessons we pass on—will stay with them long after we’re gone. And it made me think about my dad.
I had one of those “ghost moments” shortly after he passed. It was during a hot Houston summer when our AC broke down. The timing couldn’t have been worse. I called repair companies, but every one of them said the same thing: “We can’t get to you for a few days.” With the temperatures climbing and no real plan, I decided to take matters into my own hands.
After a couple of hours of research—diagnosing the issue, figuring out what parts I needed, and finding a supplier—I finally felt like I could tackle it. But knowing what to do and actually doing it are two different things.
The AC unit was in the attic, and if you’ve ever been in a Houston attic after 10 a.m., you’ll know what I mean when I say it’s like stepping into a sauna. Between the heat, crawling around to reach the unit, and making sure every step was done right, it was exhausting. By the time I finished waiting for everything to dry, climbed back up, and flipped the switch, I was drenched in sweat.
But when I felt that first wave of cold air, it was all worth it. I’d fixed the AC.
I told my wife everything—about the diagnosis, the two store trips to get the right parts, and the moment I finally turned it on and felt the cool air rush through the vents. I was proud of myself. And as we sat in the cooling house, reflecting on what it took to get the job done, I felt this overwhelming wave of sadness.
I hadn’t thought much about my dad while I was in “fix-it mode.” But once the challenge was behind me, it hit me how much I wanted to call him. I could picture us sitting together, reflecting on the process like we used to after finishing a project, whether it was fixing the car or cutting the grass. Those quiet moments were his way of teaching me to appreciate the work we’d done and to take pride in figuring things out.
That was my dad. He taught me so much without making a big deal about it. Whether it was working on a car, fixing things around the house, or just dealing with life’s challenges, he had this quiet way of teaching by example. He never sat me down for “lessons” or gave me lectures; instead, he let me watch and learn by doing. If something broke, he’d figure it out—and I’d be right there, holding the flashlight, handing him tools, or just observing.
He never complained about the work or made it seem like a burden. To him, it was just what you did: you handled problems as they came, one step at a time. I realize now that his calm, steady approach wasn’t just about getting the job done. It was about showing me that no matter how overwhelming a challenge seemed, it was always possible to figure it out.
And even though he’s gone, those lessons still echo through my life. Every time I tackle a project or face something unfamiliar, I think of him. I try to embody his spirit of figuring things out, of staying calm and focused no matter the challenge.
When I heard that line from Interstellar, it all came together: “Once you’re a parent, you’re the ghost of your children’s future.” My dad might not be here anymore, but in moments like this—when I figure something out, when I face a challenge—I know he’s still with me.
