Big Shoes To Fill

December 23, 2025

Almost as soon as the announcement was made about my dad’s death, people began telling me I had big shoes to fill.

A legacy to represent.

A father figure and an entire community to make proud.

None of that was a surprise.

I have been walking in the shadow of legacy and expectation my entire life. I know how to hold my head high—with composure and grace, eloquence and spine—on the easy days and, quite literally, after a landslide.

So I did what I know how to do.

I showed up.

I was prepared.

I led.

I stepped up to the plate.

I stayed steady.

I spoke publicly.

I pasted on the appropriate smile and the appropriate emotion for the day and represented for the community.

And I did.

The day after my dad died, I attended a school board meeting and voted on the most controversial issue our district has faced in a long time. Before the meeting, I wrote at the top of my notepad:

This is for you, Dad. You are with me. I represent your legacy.

Everywhere I go, legacy follows me.

In the public-facing role I hold, in the position of leadership I occupy, there is very little opportunity for anonymity. Very little room to set the mask aside and say:

I am not okay. I am hurting. This is heavy.

And I am carrying it alone—

after the home and heart I thought I had—

betrayed me.

My dad was an incredible man.

With an emphasis on the word man.

Human.

He left a meaningful public legacy—one I am deeply proud of.

And now, I am finally beginning to process what it meant to be Bill Tatsuda’s oldest daughter.

My dad died in April. Today is the first time I cried—really cried—about his passing and about how our relationship shaped me.

My sister and I were talking today. She shared a meaningful experience she had with him the day before he died—an unexpected embrace while she was crying. A moment of tenderness. Of comfort.

That was not my dad.

My last exchange with him at the hospital, before he lost full lucidity, was him saying to me:

“Oh, I haven’t disowned you yet?”

Neither the nurse nor I could tell if he was joking.

I'm not sure if he knew either.

My sister and I lost very different fathers.

And still, I carry the weight of his legacy proudly.

I am thankful I get to fill his shoes.

And I have decided to do it my own damn way.

Because it is a big ask—for a little girl who just lost her dad

when all she ever wanted

was to feel loved by him.