The Power of the Reframe

Drafted March 26, 2025, fourteen years after my dad’s bonus day

A note before we begin

I’ve had the idea for a “reframe” post for months. The idea of how we turn lemons into lemonade, a hardship into something to celebrate, or those moments of mom magic where we rebrand something like salmon into “beach chicken” to get our kids to try new foods! 🤣 (A much more robust, and hopefully humorous mom-related post to come. I digress.)

This felt like ‘evergreen’ content—something I’d write eventually, something I’d return to over time, gathering all the reframes I’ve learned and lived. And yet, for whatever reason, today was the day I felt compelled to sit down and draft this post.

When I finally sat down to write, I thought I’d include many examples.

But only one story poured out: my dad’s bonus day.

It took center stage without me planning it. And after writing, I did the math—today is March 26th. Fourteen years to the day since that radiant Saturday afternoon in 2011, the day I now call his bonus day.

And last night, I had a vivid dream about my dad. In it, he died again. And I grieved, deeply grieved, in real time. I woke up shaken, wondering why this was surfacing so strongly. And now I know.

Sometimes the body remembers before the mind does. Sometimes the soul nudges us toward what needs to be witnessed. Writing this was that for me.

So here it is: a reflection on the power of the reframe. Anchored in grief, written with love.

The Power of the Reframe

Life has a way of dealing us blows—unexpected, unfair, unwelcome. Sometimes it’s news we can’t un-hear. A diagnosis. A job loss. A friendship unraveling. A fog that settles in and won’t lift.

But I’ve learned something in the aftermaths: there’s power in the reframe.

It doesn’t mean ignoring pain or denying hardship. It means gently asking: Is there another way to see this?

The Bonus Day

In May of 2010, my dad was diagnosed with a rare and aggressive form of cancer—appendiceal cancer. By January 2011, after undergoing an incredibly invasive surgery, they determined the cancer could not be removed. The doctors sewed him back up and told us what we never wanted to hear: the cancer would run its course, and we had only a few precious months (maybe) left.

That March, I got the call—the one no one ever wants. It was time to come home. I told my boss, clearly and without hesitation, “I am leaving to go home to be with my dad. I don’t know when I’ll be back.” To my surprise (unsurprising now that I’m an empathetic leader myself), he met me with grace and understanding. And just before I walked into my dad’s house in Corpus Christi, he emailed me: “You should let your dad know that you’re about to be made Principal at The Richards Group. It won’t be official until next week. Keep it confidential—but he should be very proud.”

I got to walk in that door and give my dad that news—this hard-earned, career-defining news (at 29!)—and share that moment with him. It was a gift.

But the bigger gift came a few days later.

That week, my dad was fading. He could barely move from his bed to the chair in his room. But one afternoon, he surprised us all: “I want to go downstairs.”

Logistically, it was a feat. With my brother, my sister, and my aunt—we helped maneuver him down the hall and down the stairs using a rolling chair and what felt like sheer willpower. We placed him in a chair by the front door, where the sunlight poured in. He looked out at the yard and started asking playful questions about his beloved rocks—and an old oil drill bit planted in the front garden. Testing us, maybe. Or just wanting to make us laugh.

Then he wanted to go outside. So we brought him out. It was a beautiful day. Warm sun. Blue sky. And his best friend, Bill Maxwell with his wife Marybeth, came to visit with him. The air was calm, almost holy. We had been steeped in grief, but for a moment, we were just… together. My step-mom, sister, and I even snuck away for a pedicure (‘Stella Blue’ on one foot, ‘Scarlett Red’ on the other—my family knows why!), just a brief breather to collect ourselves while my dad held court in the sunshine.

That was Saturday.

My dad died Tuesday, March 29th.

That Saturday? That was his bonus day. A radiant, life-filled, heart-spilling-over day that none of us expected. It wasn’t the day he died. It was the day he lived. I carry it with me always.

That’s a reframe. It could’ve been a day of despair. But instead, it became one of the most sacred days of my life.

The Invitation

So I offer this: the next time life hands you something heavy, consider the reframe. Not as a toxic positivity band-aid—but as a shift in vision. What else might be true? What beauty still remains?

There’s no formula. But there is power in choosing a new lens.

One that says: this isn’t the end. It’s the beginning.

And maybe—just maybe—it’s a bonus day.

We’re greeted by this photo from my dad’s bonus day every single day. (No surprise—he’s holding a small rock in one hand, with a giant one right in front of him!)