“Who would you go on a date with, and why?” That was the question that came up in a recent speech workshop. People shared fun, lighthearted answers. But for me, the answer came straight from my heart. I would go on a date with my dad.

My father passed away nearly fifteen years ago, just before my life was about to begin a whole new chapter. I was newly married, preparing to move to the United States, and chasing the dream that was not just mine, but ours.

His dream became my mission.

My dad was brilliant. Curious. Driven. He always wanted to become a doctor; but back then, in Nepal, medical school was limited and finances were tight. His dream was postponed, then eventually lost. But when I was born, the first child, he passed that dream to me. I grew up hearing stories about medicine. I studied hard, chased top grades, and built my entire identity around one goal: to become a doctor. Not just for me, but for him.

Years later, I graduated medical school, completed my residency, and made the brave decision to pursue a medical career in the U.S. I was so close to making our shared dream come true. But then, everything changed. Just days after my wedding, while coming back from our honeymoon, I got the call: My father was in critical condition.

We rushed to the hospital. I will never forget the look on his face, tired, in pain, but still fighting. He spent fifteen days in the ICU, but the complications kept mounting. We tried everything, but he passed away before he ever got to see the life we dreamed of, together. He never saw me wear my white coat in the U.S. He never got to play with his grandkids. He never got the retirement he deserved. He never got to travel the world the way he hoped.

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

If I could go on a date with anyone, it would be an evening with my father. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere warm. Just the two of us.

I would show him pictures of my children, his grandchildren. I would tell him how I kept going, even when it was hard. I would tell him how Mom is doing, how we have grown, and how every milestone I hit still feels like it is for him. I would share stories of our travels, the food, the places, the memories he never got to make. I would tell him about my work, my purpose, my passion. I would tell him about Momkinz, the platform I built to support mothers, inspired by my own struggles and healing. And then, I would sit back and watch him smile. Because that smile (his joy, his pride) is something I have longed for more than any award, title, or accomplishment.

I would hug him tightly. I would tell him I love him. I would let him see the woman I have become.

We often chase success, thinking it will feel like “enough” once we get there. But sometimes, enough is just being seen by the person who believed in us first.

So, let me ask you: Who would you go on a date with, and why? What stories would you tell? What would you want them to know about you now?

If your person is still here, call them. If they are not, write them a letter. And if you are still chasing something, pause, and remember why you started.

Because sometimes, success is not the destination; it is the connection.

Manisha Ghimire is an internal medicine physician.