“Whom would you choose to go on a date with, and why?” That was the inquiry that arose in a recent speech workshop. Participants shared amusing, light-hearted responses. But for me, the reply came directly from my heart. I would choose to go on a date with my dad.

My father passed away nearly fifteen years ago, just as my life was about to embark on an entirely new chapter. I was recently married, preparing to relocate to the United States, and pursuing a dream that was not solely mine, but ours.

His dream became my mission.

My dad was exceptional. Inquisitive. Determined. He aspired to be a doctor; however, back then in Nepal, medical schooling was limited and finances were scarce. His dream was delayed, then ultimately faded away. But when I arrived, his first child, he passed that aspiration onto me. I grew up listening to tales about medicine. I worked diligently, aiming for top grades, and built my entire identity around one ambition: to become a doctor. Not just for myself, but for him.

Years later, I graduated from medical school, completed my residency, and made the courageous choice to pursue a medical profession in the U.S. I was so close to realizing our shared dream. But then, everything shifted. Just days after my wedding, while returning from our honeymoon, I received the call: My father was in critical condition.

We hurried to the hospital. I will never forget the expression on his face, weary, in pain, yet still fighting. He spent fifteen days in the ICU, but the complications continued to escalate. We tried everything, but he passed away before he could witness the life we envisioned, together. He never saw me don my white coat in the U.S. He never got to play with his grandkids. He never experienced the retirement he earned. He never journeyed the world the way he dreamed.

And I never got to say: We made it, Dad. We truly made it.

If I could spend an evening with anyone, it would be with my father. Somewhere serene. Somewhere warm. Just the two of us.

I would show him photographs of my children, his grandchildren. I would tell him how I persevered, even through difficulties. I would share how Mom is doing, how we have blossomed, and how every milestone I achieve still feels like it’s for him. I would recount stories of our adventures, the cuisines, the places, the memories he never had the chance to create. I would inform him about my work, my purpose, my passion. I would speak to him about Momkinz, the platform I established to assist mothers, inspired by my own challenges and healing. And then, I would lean back and watch him smile. Because that smile (his joy, his pride) is something I have yearned for more than any accolade, title, or achievement.

I would embrace him tightly. I would tell him I love him. I would allow him to see the woman I have become.

We often pursue success, believing it will feel like “enough” once we arrive. Yet sometimes, enough is merely being acknowledged by the person who believed in us first.

So, let me pose this question: Whom would you go on a date with, and why? What stories would you share? What would you wish for them to know about you now?

If your person is still present, call them. If they are not, write them a letter. And if you are still pursuing something, pause, and recall why you began.

Because at times, success isn’t the journey; it’s the connection.

*Manisha Ghimire is an internal medicine physician.*