The Four Agreements of Fatherhood

What my dad taught me about being human

I was often the only girl waiting outside the movie theater, the party, the concert, the roller skating rink. While my friends walked home or caught rides with whoever was available, I waited for my dad. Every time. Without fail.

My father didn’t have his own father in his life, so perhaps he worked tirelessly to become the man he wished he’d had. Maybe my grandfather is to thank for the dad who showed up, literally and figuratively, in ways that shaped how I understand love, reliability, and what it means to be fully human.

“Be the best human being you can be.”

That’s what my dad asked of me and my siblings—not straight A’s, not athletic achievements, not career success. Just our best humanity. For a man with ambitions as vast as his (he was always pursuing a new book, a new venture, a new degree, a new business idea), it surprised me how humble his expectations were.

He led by example. I saw him at his finest—patient, generous, steadfast. I also saw him angry, sometimes selfish (my mother would say), and vengeful to those who crossed the line. He was fully human, which somehow made his goodness more extraordinary to me.

When The Four Agreements Met My Father’s Legacy

This weekend, I listened to Don Miguel Ruiz’s The Four Agreements again on Audible. As the author outlined his four principles for personal freedom

Be Impeccable with Your Word,

Don’t Take Anything Personally,

Don’t Make Assumptions, and

Always Do Your Best…

I realized I was hearing an echo of my father’s approach to life and parenting.

These weren’t just tools for spiritual growth; they were a blueprint for the kind of father he had been.

Be Impeccable with Your Word

My dad’s word was his bond. When he said he’d pick me up, he was there. When he promised to attend a school event, he showed up. His reliability wasn’t just about keeping commitments—it was about understanding that children build their sense of safety on the foundation of adult consistency.

He spoke truthfully, even when it was uncomfortable. He didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep or paint false pictures of how the world worked. His integrity with language taught me that words have weight, that they can build or destroy trust.

Don’t Take Anything Personally

Perhaps because he’d grown up without a father’s guidance, my dad seemed to understand that his children’s struggles weren’t reflections of his failure. He stayed present to help me learn without making my problems about his parenting or his vision for my life.

This gave me permission to be imperfect, to fail, to figure things out at my own pace.

Don’t Make Assumptions

Rather than assume he knew what we needed or wanted, my dad asked questions. He paid attention to who we actually were rather than who he thought we should be. Despite his own drive for achievement, he never pressured us to follow his path or mirror his ambitions.

I often wish he had pushed us more, but I now understand the gift in his approach: he saw us clearly enough to let us become ourselves.

Always Do Your Best

This was his daily practice and his only real expectation. Not perfection, not comparison to others, just the best effort we could give in any moment. Some days our best was extraordinary; other days it was simply showing up. He seemed to understand that “your best” fluctuates, and that was okay.

The Grief We Carry

For those of us fortunate enough to have had present, loving fathers, we carry a different kind of grief when they’re gone. It is the ache of missing that solid manifestation of reliability, that living example of unconditional love. Daughters find it hard living on a spinning, unpredictable planet without men like this holding the world on their shoulders.

For those who never experienced this kind of fathering, I suspect the grief runs deeper. They are not only mourning a person, but also a relationship that never was, support that was never offered, love that was never felt. They grieve a preferred world in a past they can’t re-create.

But here’s what I’ve learned from both my father’s example and Ruiz’s wisdom: these four agreements can also serve as a healing framework, whether we’re grieving the loss of a good father or the absence of one.

Be impeccable with your word—especially the words you speak to yourself about your worth and your past.

Don’t take anything personally—your father’s absence or failings weren’t about your value as a human being.

Don’t make assumptions—about what you missed, what you can’t become, or what healing looks like.

Always do your best—to break cycles, to show up for others, to become the kind of person (or parent) you needed.

The Long Game of Love

My father retired from training nuclear power engineers and bought a franchise, a couple of buildings, and a new car for my mom. He dreamed big and achieved much, but his greatest accomplishment was simpler: he showed us what it looked like to be reliably, imperfectly, beautifully human. He even showed us what it looked like to let go of life with dignity as ALS shut him down bit by bit.

That girl waiting outside the movie theater didn’t just receive rides home. She received a daily lesson in what it means to be someone others can count on. She learned that love isn’t just a feeling; it’s a series of small, consistent actions that say “you matter” over and over again.

Whether you had a present father like mine who you wanted to be proud of you, or you’re still healing from the father you didn’t have, the invitation remains the same:

“Be the best human being you can be. Show up. Keep your word. Love without conditions. Do your best.”

The agreements aren’t just principles for personal freedom, they’re a roadmap for breaking generational patterns and creating the kind of love we all deserved to receive.

What agreements (spoken or unspoken) shaped your understanding of love and reliability? I’d love to hear about the people who showed up for you, or how you’re learning to show up for others.

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I hope you find Between Grief and Joy a space where you find mirrors for your experience, windows to understand others and confirmation that your emotions are valid, your healing is supported and you are never alone.

Warmly,

Yolande