In Japan, during the Obon Festival, families release floating lanterns on rivers to guide ancestral spirits home. Each lantern drifts briefly, glows, and fades away into the distance.

It’s a quiet, breathtaking ritual — a reminder that all life is transient. The light doesn’t last forever, and that’s what makes it beautiful.

The glow, the drift, the fade — they’re not just symbols of memory, but of life itself. We shine, we love, we let go.

Over the past year, my daughter has called me Daddy.‍

Every time she says it, something inside me softens. The way her eyes light up when she sees me, the way she reaches out to be picked up, the way she laughs when I toss her onto my shoulders — those moments are pure light.

But this past week, she began calling me Dad.‍

She dropped the D-Y.‍

It’s such a small change — two letters disappearing — but it hit me harder than I expected. I found myself thinking: I’m going to miss her calling me Daddy.

And then I thought of the Obon lanterns.

Each one drifts, glows, and fades. The fading isn’t loss — it’s transition. It’s the gentle reminder that beauty lives in impermanence.

My daughter won’t always call me Daddy. Someday, she’ll have new names for me — Dad, maybe even Old Man one day — and each stage will carry its own kind of light.

The trick is not to hold on too tightly to any single moment, but to see the beauty in its passing. To let the lantern float down the river and trust that another will soon appear — different, but no less radiant.

Life is a series of lanterns we must learn to release — seasons, roles, identities, even versions of ourselves. When we cling too hard, we miss the glow. When we let go gracefully, we make space for what’s next to shine.

Key Takeaway: Every moment, like every lantern, is temporary — and that’s what makes it sacred. Treasure the light while it’s here, then let it drift. Because the act of letting go is not the end of beauty — it’s how new light begins.

‍