My dad has a PhD in psychology.

Which sounds like it should come with a disclaimer. Like, “results may vary” or “side effects include being completely insufferable at dinner parties.”

Growing up with Pete Pearson as your father is a very unique experience. Let me paint you a picture.

When I was a kid, he’d drive me to school every morning. One morning, I asked, can I listen to the radio?

“Yes,” he said.

30 seconds later: click. Off.

Why did you do that????????

“You didn't ask how long you could listen.”

(Please sit with how UNHINGED this is for a child who just wants to hear Disney Radio play Circle of Life on the way to 5th grade.)

So the next day. I was armed. Ready to defeat him. Dad, can I listen to the radio ALL THE WAY to school?

“Yes.”

Thirty seconds later he switched it to “This is Stock Talk with Rob Black” AM radio. 

Why did you do THAT????

“You didn't say which station.”

(I need you to understand I was not being gaslit. He was installing a thoughtful software that would pay off years later.) The next day I was, like, totally prepared.

Dad, can I listen to the radio station of my choosing, all the way to school?

“Yes.”

A few minutes later, he turned the volume down to 1.

I genuinely cannot tell you whether I laughed or cried. Probably both, probably at the same time, which is also a very specific experience of being Pete Pearson's daughter.

The whole point — and embarrassingly I didn't get this until I was in my 20s — was that he was teaching me to ask better questions. To get clear on all the variables. To not assume the person across from you knows what you mean just because YOU know what you mean.

And it worked. God help me, it worked.

A few weeks ago we were driving home from Trader Joes and he goes, “hey do you think God has friends?”

And before I could stop myself I asked, “what kind of god are we talking about? Sky daddy? The karmic wheel of the universe? A golden idol?”

He said, “Let's say a big bearded guy in the sky.”

Okay but what's your definition of a friend?

He started laughing. He gave me a high five and said “the apple didn't fall too far from the tree.”

And I laughed with him, knowing that I was a person he’d made on purpose. 

But here's the thing about my dad that I want you to actually know.

Recently, I told him how he screwed me up. 

When I was 9, he said something – offhand probably – that carved its way into my psyche. “Molly, you’re like a racehorse giving pony rides.” And I built an entire inner critic out of it. Decades of pushing myself, yelling at myself, berating myself for resting, convinced I was fundamentally lazy. A racehorse wasting herself on small circles in a dusty ring.

When I told him, I didn't know what to expect, maybe the classic therapist pivot. Or the reframe that would make it about a lesson instead of the hurt.

Instead he said: I'm so sorry you lived with that for so long.

And then he went deeper. 

“I'm being honest, that's really what I say to myself. That's MY inner critic talking. And it should never have been directed at you.

But even more importantly, I’m so glad you told me how I hurt you. I could never have told my father anything like this. Our relationship was like two people in adjacent hotel rooms — close enough to hear each other through the wall, but never knowing what was being said.

That’s why this is so special to me. It’s so special to have a parent-child relationship with this kind of transparency and emotional courage. So I’m incredibly grateful for your honesty and I respect you for telling me.”  

How many people get that? How many people get a father who, decades later, will look at something he said and say, “that was mine to carry, not yours. I'm sorry. Thank you for being brave enough to bring it to me.”

Now, if you’re crying and you love crying, you can stop reading here and wander through the rest of your day with the touching transaction between father-daughter that hopefully heals or inspires the tiny child in you.

If tears ain’t your thang and you’d like a laugh, proceed…

My dad is a fire hydrant of ideas. I mention this because this letter would be incomplete without it.

Every time I call him it's…

“Hey Molly, what do you think about this: scentless perfume?”

“Hey, what do you think it would be like if someone swallowed a bottle of popcorn kernels just before they died? It would make the cremation so much more interesting.”  

Pete Pearson is incredibly alive. Which makes sense. He's spent a career sitting with couples in the hardest moments of their lives, helping them find joy and curiosity in each other. He knows better than almost anyone that being alive comes from asking the questions, no matter how “out there” they are. From making someone’s day. From pushing and stretching someone out of nothing more than love. 

Happy Father's Day, Dad.

Thank you for teaching me to ask better questions. For the AM stock radio. For the volume at 1. For making it safe to tell you how you screwed up. And for saying sorry. For the popcorn cremation idea, which I think says everything about you.

The apple didn't fall too far from the tree.

And I am so, so glad.

with love and a curious mind that will stay with me forever, 

Molly