17 years of memories are held inside my still growing brain; memories of the first time I learned how to dribble a basketball and find the passion for a sport. 

The first time I pedaled my brand new bike, training wheels keeping me upright, with my princess knee and elbow pads, and bright pink helmet strapped on: my favorite person supporting me all the way down the street; my legs burning, the wind blowing and my smile growing. 

Memories of us coloring and my mind being blown as he taught me that someone could actually use a white crayon to color something. 

The countless times we sat on the front porch grabbing from the pile of rocks and seeing how far we could throw it across the street. 

The moments he tried to teach me how to whistle, but I never got the hang of it. The walks at sunset to the park where I spent my childhood. The park I learned how to use the monkey bars and how to swing like a pro; always being so exhilarated to know he was about to push me higher. 

From the time he convinced me I had magical powers that changed the radio when I pointed to it (when really he was just using the buttons on the steering wheel), to the first time he taught me the Lord’s prayer, he was always there for me. 

Supporting me and cheering me on at every sporting event, every concert and every conference, making sure he knew how proud he was of me. He loved me when my mom was incapable, and for that, I will be forever grateful. 

These memories continually resurface every time I hear stories or comments regarding dads never measuring up to the ultimate comfort of a mom. They come up when I realize the world never seems to recognize dads the way they do their moms. Some don’t understand the hurt that comes with Mother’s Day being an intimate, special day, while Father’s Day often gets pushed to the side, and usually kept quiet. 

I believe there’s nothing more underrated than a good father, especially with all the absent dads in countless families. We’ve gotten used to giving fathers a bad rap because of those who aren’t present; when really we should be praising those who have been there all along. 

I believe fathers—those strong, faithful and supportive enough like mine—are the unsung heroes of the story.