Kira was fun, cheeky, and adventurous. I raised her from the day she was born to the day she passed away. We hiked mountains, camped together, laughed often, and built a life that felt full of movement, humour, and closeness.
When she was diagnosed with a brain tumour, our world changed. Even during the hardest months of illness, she remained herself: brave, funny, and deeply thoughtful. On my birthday, after doctors had left the house explaining how she would die, she apologised for being poorly on my birthday and then asked me a question that would stay with me forever:
“Daddy, will you die with me so you can look after me?”
A week later, she died in my arms.
After her death, my life fell apart. Grief stripped away structure, relationships, certainty, and direction. Years later, with my dog Dexter beside me, I drove across continents and found myself in the middle of the Gobi Desert, running out of fuel, food, and water.
Sitting on an adventure box in the desert landscape, with Dexter lying on the sand beside me and my pickup truck behind me, I recorded what I believed might be my final message.
In that moment I realised something that had taken years to understand: I could not die my way back to my daughter. The only promise I could still keep was to live in her name.
Today I live near the mountain where Kira’s ashes were scattered. I still carry her with me, in memory, in story, and in the life I continue to live.
This story is for Kira.