24 Years In The Making

24 Years In the Making

John Paul Derryberry

June 23rd is a day that always carries extra weight in my world. Yet enough time has passed where it doesn’t always hit like a ton of bricks. Some years it sneaks up on me and, with a soft tap on the shoulder, reminds me my life changed forever years ago on this day. Other years it has loudly screamed, and some years it passes with me barely noticing. Those years, I feel a sense of guilt for healing to the point that the anniversary of my father’s passing didn’t register. I remind myself on those days; I would tell a client it’s more than okay; it's a beautiful thing when our trauma doesn’t register with us anymore. Yet there I was 24 years later, driving to a talk in Calmer, Iowa, trying to prep for my return to the stage, and the only thing I could focus on was my father. Grief is funny that way.

Two years of not speaking due to the pandemic and the coincidence that my first talk back was on the anniversary of my dad's death in a car accident, threw me for a small loop. As the rolling hills of northeastern Iowa rolled along, I couldn’t help but find some laughter in this strange twist of fate. I had missed giving my talks a lot during the pandemic. It felt like part of my life was gone, much like all of us sacrificed a part of our lives to the pandemic. We all slowly realized what was important and what we did in our life that was fluff. My talks weren’t fluff and part of me ached to return, helping communities understand, heal, and grow from moments that shake us to the core. Part of me worried that the pandemic had killed my public speaking. Would I never return to the stage again?

The first couple of years, the talks were about my healing. Twenty-four years ago, my dad died and 17 years ago, I started my public speaking. Did my talks help people? Probably, but full disclosure, those talks were more about my healing journey than the audiences'. These were very selfish talks, the type of talks I hate now, with the speakers lecturing from their soapbox, comforting their fragile egos way more than demonstrating compassion, care, and guidance to their audience. Now, I worried that my focus on my father’s death, my excitement about even getting the chance to talk again, would have me being the type of public speaker I despise.

So there I was, changing in the parking lot of Calmer, Iowa. An audience member chuckled as she caught me putting on my socks. I smiled and said, “Don’t let everyone know I got ready in the parking lot.” She smiled and replied, “Your secret is safe with me.” Twenty-four years to the day my dad died, and I was telling our stories in the hopes of helping a community, that had experienced two suicides of young people in the last couple of years, heal a little. As I began, I could feel the rust in my words, but my tone and actions revealed the growth I have experienced over all these years. This talk wasn’t about what happened to me 24 years ago or just being back in front of a crowd. It was about them, the brave 60 folks from this small rural community who came together to grieve, heal, and attempt to take a small step into life after a tragedy.

As I told my stories, I constantly returned to them, the people who were in my care for 75 minutes. I finished my talk and was the last to leave the building, after talking with some of the audience members about life. The person who hired me to help the community thanked me for taking good care of their folks. They asked me to return for another event in September. My public speaking isn’t dead; it’s returned after the pandemic. It was a full-circle moment 24 years in the making. I never would have ended up in Calmer, Iowa, without the passing of my father. The boy I was when my father died, the young speaker who started this journey, and the husband and father of two with his own doubts, met in Eastern Iowa. And I realized I am who I say I am, which is always a good feeling to experience. I was able to help a group of folks understand tragedy, and they were able to remind me about the growth I’ve made. I’m back, better than ever, and ready to dive deeper into practicing compassion every day and telling stories that brings people together.