The Man My Father Became

My father grew up in Pérez Zeledón, Costa Rica — a place he insists he doesn’t hold much affection for. He’ll say it plainly, almost matter-of-factly: “Era como vivir en un huequillo.” It was poverty, difficulty, limitation. A place where nothing came easy.

And yet, whenever he talks about it, something warmer slips through the cracks — not quite nostalgia, but an unspoken tenderness for the people who raised him there. His grandmother. His mother. His three sisters. A house full of strong women who taught him how to survive, how to listen, how to bend without breaking.

He grew up surrounded by women who didn’t have much, but gave everything they could. Maybe that’s why today he understands women in a way many men don’t — patient, respectful, willing to sit through the whole story before responding.

But even with all they gave him, he knew Pérez Zeledón couldn’t give him a future. So he left. He packed to go to San José to study. Then, he packed his life into a single suitcase and went to the University of Delaware, chasing a life bigger than the one he was born into.

While he studied and worked long hours to pay for school, his mother got breast cancer. The distance between Delaware and Costa Rica suddenly became unbearable — not measured in miles, but in helplessness. He couldn’t fly home every week, couldn’t call every night. There was no fast connection, no WhatsApp, no Zoom.

Only letters.

Only money he scraped together from his work.

Only the ache of being far away when someone you love is slipping away.

She passed away before he could say goodbye.

He doesn’t speak often about the moment he found out — but when he does, the air gets heavy. Losing her didn’t stop him, but it changed him. It made him carry his grief like a promise: to build a life worthy of the sacrifices she made, worthy of the childhood she held together with her hands.

And he did.

He built everything from nothing. No connections, no shortcuts — just work, stubborn hope, and a voice telling him he was capable of more. Today he is the Global Vice President of Mission-Critical & Enterprise Solutions at Tait Communications. What matters to him isn’t the rank. It’s the journey. It’s that he made it out — and up — without forgetting where he started.

Maybe that is why he is the father he is to me.

He listens. He debates without dismissing. He supports even the dreams that scare him. He believes in education the way some people believe in religion — as the path that saved him, and the path he wants me to walk with confidence.

Every internship, every opportunity, every step I’ve taken toward my future has his encouragement behind it. When I doubt myself, he tells me I am capable. When I’m scared, he tells me that fear never stopped him from moving forward — and it shouldn’t stop me either.

He may not love Pérez Zeledón. But it shaped him.

And through him, it shaped me too.

His mother never got to see the man he became. But I do.

Every day.

And I know she would be proud of him.

Just like I am.