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When I was a kid, my dad told me to pick a sport, practice a lot and stick with it. That way, in high school, I’d join the team and have built-in friends. “Later, you can aim for a college scholarship,” he said with a wide, confident smile. I knew this was good advice. It was bold, financially minded and forward-thinking. The only problem? I was terrible at sports. But my clumsiness and athletic mediocrity weren’t going to stop me. I chose tennis, and for years, I took lessons and played with my mom after school. I didn’t love the game, but I stuck with it and put in countless hours sweating on the court. Despite my efforts, when I got to high school, I tried out for the team and didn’t make it. I barely lost out on the last JV spot to a slow-moving junior. I was crushed. I cried to my dad that afternoon. This happened a lot: my dad would give me smart advice, I’d follow it and I’d end up feeling lost or disappointed for one reason or another. One year, Dad encouraged me to take horseback riding lessons. He loved horses and thought it would be a good thing to bond over. But I was so terrified of animals that I could barely go up to even the littlest pony and pet it on the nose. Another time, he told me the best jobs would be in Stem and advised me to study up on the sciences. He even bought me a telescope to look at stars. I wanted to be interested, but I just wasn’t excited by constellations or even the moon. I was frustrated. There I was, lucky enough to have a smart dad who knew a lot. And I was wise enough to know good fatherly advice when I saw it. So where was I going wrong? Growing up, Dad and I were so different. He was rugged, outdoorsy and no-nonsense. He liked fixing cars, fishing and hunting. Meanwhile, I was the mild-mannered vegetarian who hummed show tunes at the table. It was hard for us to understand each other, and we didn’t always get along. Add that to the fact that we only saw each other every other weekend, and it felt as if he was on another planet, one I didn’t know much about because I never used my telescope. I suspect this distance was the reason I always tried to take his advice. I wanted my dad to know that I was listening to him, that I respected and loved him, despite often bonking heads. And yet, something wasn’t working. When I was 17, Dad told me I should go to a certain college. It was a big school with low tuition, and it was only a few minutes from his house. So, I could live there instead of the dorms. But my gut, and every point on my pro-con list, told me to go with another school. My mom and I had toured this much smaller, quiet university, and I immediately felt at home. I loved the sweater-vested professors and the students playing Frisbee on the quad. This school was more expensive and further away, but so much more “me”. I knew Dad’s choice made sense. It was a smart pick. But I wanted to go to the other one. I remember asking a friend what I should do about my college conundrum. She was older, had already finished high school and moved out on her own. “Do what feels right,” she said, with the all-knowing wisdom of a 19-year-old. I thought about it for a long time, and registered for fall classes at the farther, smaller school. It felt good. I showed up to campus my freshman year and loved it. I started thinking: What if I stopped taking my dad’s advice? What if, whenever he told me to do something, I did the opposite? Would it make me seem dumb? Would it make me a bad daughter? I think I had an assumption that if you love someone, you respect them, and you see them as successful, you should take their advice. If Vincent van Gogh rose from the dead, set up an easel in my living room, and gave me some pointers on how to mix colors, I’d do what he said, right? But with my dad, something wasn’t clicking. So when he told me which major he thought I should pick, which extracurriculars to do and what internships to apply for, I listened carefully, thoughtfully – and then did something else. Overall, my experiment was a success. I found things I loved, listened to my gut, and slowly, learned to not care so much what someone else (even someone I loved) thought. Instead of pursuing science or sports, I found a love of books and art. Knowing I’m not an animal person, I discovered I enjoyed working with kids and went into teaching. These days, I’m not a wealthy scientist or a top athlete, but I’m happy. And somewhere along the way, I realized that, while I still usually don’t do what Dad advises me to, when I make a choice, I often use his logic. Sure, I didn’t go into jobs he picked for me, or choose homes he liked, but I often try to be bold, financially minded and forward-thinking, like I know he’d be. In that way, his advice has served me well. I don’t think Dad was ever upset when I didn’t take his advice, but he was usually a little confused by the paths I chose. I’d tell him about the wonderful book I was reading or a pottery class I was excited to take, and he’d tilt his head to the side and say: “Well, OK.” Recently, I told him that after teaching middle school, I was thinking about switching gears and teaching college classes. After a beat, he shook his head, shrugged and admitted that both jobs sounded awful to him. “I’d rather nail my hand to the table than spend all my time in an English class,” he said. I couldn’t help but laugh. Recently, my dad and I chatted about summer plans. I said I was seriously considering taking my three small kids on a cross-country trip to Disney World. Realizing this is the last summer before my oldest starts school, I told him I wanted to do something big: a fun, memorable adventure. As expected, Dad told me not to do it, to save my money, and that kids are happy just going to a playground. It was sound advice from a caring father. I hope I won’t regret not taking his advice. And I hope I’m not a bad daughter. But I booked the plane tickets that night. We had a marvelous time. Jillian Pretzel is a freelance writer