A reflection on Janice, Richard, and the inheritance they left in me

There are dates on the calendar that simply tell us what day it is.

And then there are dates that carry stories.

September 27 carries two of mine.

It is the day my grandmother, Janice L. Frederick Walter, was born into this world.

And decades later, on that very same date, September 27, 2021, my dad, Richard Richardson, Jr., left it.

One date.

One beginning.

One ending.

Two people I loved deeply.

Every year, September 27 asks me to hold two truths in the same hand: celebration and grief. Birth and death. Arrival and departure. Gratitude for a life beginning and sorrow for another life ending.

There is something almost poetic about it, although I am not always sure “poetic” is the word I would have chosen for something that hurts this much.

Because how do you celebrate the birthday of someone you loved while simultaneously remembering the day someone else you loved took his final breath?

Maybe the answer is that you don’t choose.

You honor both.

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Janice: The Woman Who Gave Me Some of My Fire

My grandmother, Janice, was born September 27, 1938.

Long before I understood inheritance as anything beyond money or possessions, I was inheriting pieces of her.

When people encounter my charm, some of that is Janice.

When my wit arrives before I have time to filter it, yeah, blame Janice for some of that too.

When I walk into a room knowing that I belong there, when I trust my intelligence, when I figure things out because quitting simply isn’t an option, I recognize something familiar.

Her.

My grandmother gave me pieces of the woman I would eventually become.

Her smarts taught me that intelligence isn’t always announced with degrees, titles, or applause. Sometimes it looks like wisdom. Sometimes it is discernment. Sometimes it is knowing how to navigate a world that wasn’t necessarily designed to make things easy for you.

And her strength taught me something even more important.

Strong women aren’t necessarily women who never hurt.

They are women who somehow learn how to keep living while carrying what hurt them.

The older I become, the more I understand the women who came before me. Things I couldn’t comprehend as a child make more sense now. Their resilience. Their humor. Their sharpness. Their ability to make something out of very little and somehow make everybody around them believe there was plenty.

Sometimes I look at myself and realize:

Janice is still here.

Not physically.

But in my personality.

In my determination.

In my intelligence.

In my humor.

In the part of me that can be charming and loving and still let you know, without much ambiguity, exactly where I stand.

That’s Grandma.

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Richard: The Man Who Taught Me to Show Up

Then there was my dad, Richard.

Richard Richardson, Jr.

September 24, 1945 – September 27, 2021.

He lived 76 years and three days.

And if my grandmother helped give me my strength, my dad helped teach me what to do with the life that strength allows me to live.

Live it.

Richard had a passion for life that I still carry with me.

He taught me, sometimes without ever having to say the words, that love isn’t simply something you profess.

Love is consistency.

Love is showing up.

Love is calling.

Love is checking in.

Love is remembering.

Love is being present when being present isn’t particularly convenient.

Love is allowing people to know, through your actions, that they matter to you.

That lesson has followed me into friendships, relationships, family, leadership, mentoring, coaching and every other space where I have been entrusted with another person’s heart.

I believe deeply in being consistent in the lives of the people I love.

And when I trace that belief back far enough, I find Richard.

My dad taught me that a life doesn’t have to be perfect to be meaningful. You can laugh loudly. Love people fiercely. Enjoy yourself. Make memories. Be present. And when the people you love look back over the years, they shouldn’t have to wonder whether you cared.

They should have evidence.

That may be one of the greatest gifts he left me.

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The Dichotomy of September 27

There is a strange symmetry in knowing that September 27 gave my family one life and eventually marked the departure of another.

My grandmother’s headstone reads:

September 27, 1938 – May 13, 2010.

My dad’s reads:

September 24, 1945 – September 27, 2021.

The same date sits on opposite sides of the dash.

For one, September 27 says:

She arrived.

For the other:

He departed.

And somewhere between those two statements is an entire lesson about life.

We spend so much of our existence trying to separate joy from sorrow.

We want happy days to remain happy.

We want painful days to exist somewhere else on the calendar.

But life doesn’t always honor those boundaries.

Sometimes the anniversary of your greatest heartbreak falls on a day that once represented celebration.

Sometimes you laugh while grieving.

Sometimes you cry while remembering something hilarious.

Sometimes gratitude and sadness occupy the same room.

And neither one cancels the other.

That may be one of grief’s strangest lessons.

I can miss Richard and still smile because he lived.

I can mourn Janice and still laugh because I recognize her in myself.

I can wish both of them were physically here while simultaneously acknowledging that so much of who they were is still here because it lives in me.

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Maybe That Is What Legacy Really Means

We often talk about legacy as though it is something grand.

Buildings.

Money.

Businesses.

Awards.

Names engraved somewhere permanent.

But maybe legacy is much more intimate than that.

Maybe legacy is the moment someone tells a joke and realizes they sound exactly like their grandmother.

Maybe legacy is noticing that you show up for people because your father taught you what consistency looks like.

Maybe legacy is discovering that the people who loved you helped construct pieces of your character without you realizing it.

If that’s true, then I am walking evidence of two legacies.

From Janice, I inherited charm, wit, intelligence and strength.

From Richard, I inherited passion for life and the conviction that people deserve consistency from those who claim to love them.

And together, those lessons have shaped the woman I am still becoming.

A woman who thinks.

A woman who laughs.

A woman who survives.

A woman who dreams.

A woman who loves deeply.

A woman who tries to show up.

A woman who understands that tomorrow isn’t promised, so the people who matter should never have to guess whether they matter.

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So Today, I Honor Both

Today, September 27, I refuse to allow death to have the final word.

Instead, I choose legacy.

I honor Janice L. Frederick Walter, born September 27, 1938.

Happy heavenly birthday, Grandma.

Thank you for the strength.

Thank you for the smarts.

Thank you for the wit.

And yes, thank you for the charm because I have definitely put that one to good use. ❤️

And I honor Richard Richardson, Jr., who transitioned September 27, 2021.

Dad, I still miss your humor.

I miss your presence.

I miss the way you enjoyed life.

But perhaps most importantly, I understand your lessons differently now.

You taught me that love should have a pattern.

Show up.
Show up again.
And keep showing up.

Five years later, September 27 still carries an ache.

I suspect some part of it always will.

But it also carries gratitude.

Because before September 27 became the date that reminds me of death, it was already the date that reminded me of life.

And perhaps that is exactly how I should remember it.

Not simply as the day my dad died.

Not simply as my grandmother’s birthday.

But as the day that reminds me of the extraordinary cycle we are all participating in:

We arrive.
We live.
We love.
We leave.
And if we have loved well enough, pieces of us remain.

Janice remains.

Richard remains.

They remain in me.

And as long as I carry their strength, their laughter, their lessons and their love forward, September 27 will never belong solely to grief.

It will belong to legacy.

— Tiffany Michele