Decades ago, when I lived and worked in San Francisco, my father took me to a Natalie Cole concert. I remember the pride of arriving straight from work in my dressy work-to-evening outfit, meeting Dad in his crisp suit and tie—his date for the evening. What pierces me still: the moment Natalie Cole sang alongside her father's recorded voice in "Unforgettable," an otherworldly duet that captured something essential about fathers and daughters, time and loss. Dad and I both choked down tears, humming along to the achingly beautiful lyrics.
This memory surfaced unexpectedly during my Tuesday acupuncture appointment with Deyba. Before the session began, I confessed that my post-competition high from Nationals had collapsed into emptiness—what goal, what adventure would come next? Some part of me seeks validation through external actions, performances, life-changing events. She challenged me to redefine myself not as someone who hunts for validation but as someone who shines in place.
Hard for me, I explained. I've spent years feeling lesser than people who swim faster, write better, radiate confidence. I told Deyba about my surprise when a college classmate and teammate recognized me thirty-five years later—I don't remember contributing much to the team during my two years at Harvard.
"Why are you surprised?" she asked. "I will never forget you. Your swimmers will never forget you. You are unforgettable."
Tears erupted without warning, an awkward situation when you're flat on your back with acupuncture needles sprouting from forehead and temples. Deyba smiled and swiped at my face with tissues as tears kept carving new tracks down my cheeks.
"You must have said the magic words," I managed, smiling weakly.
"I'm just repeating what your higher self wants you to hear," she said, finishing her needle placement with one last pass of the tissues.
Near the end of my session—now prone, needles removed—Deyba began humming the song. She started telling me about a memory she had of a Natalie Cole concert, a magical father-daughter duet that moved her. Emotions swelled as I pictured Dad in his impeccable suit and tie.
"I was there too," I said.
At least gravity could help with the tears this time.
The word "unforgettable" carries weight we rarely claim for ourselves. We're quick to award it to others—the accomplished, the famous, the obviously remarkable—while dismissing our own presence as forgettable, our contributions as minor. But we leave marks deeper than we know. The college teammate who remembered me across decades. The swimmers I coach who (I hope) will carry something of our time together forward. My father, gone now six years, who still reaches me through a song I heard in a darkened concert hall when I was young and he was vital and neither of us knew what the future would hold.
You are unforgettable too. Not because of what you achieve or perform or accomplish, but because of who you are to the people who know you—the ones who will hum your song long after you've stopped singing it yourself.
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