What shaped me the most would probably be when my dad passed

In the tender words of Bindi Irwin, we hear the quiet ache of love and loss, and the eternal echo of memory: “What shaped me the most would probably be when my dad passed away. For the rest of my life, I’ll kind of feel like he’s gonna come home.” These words carry the weight of every soul who has ever waited for someone who will not return. They are the confession of a heart that knows the paradox of grief—that even when the world moves forward, part of us remains forever at the threshold, listening for a familiar step that no longer sounds.

The origin of this quote lies in the life of a daughter whose father, Steve Irwin, was not only a beloved public figure but a living force of nature—courageous, joyful, endlessly alive. When he died suddenly, the loss reverberated across the world, but for his daughter, it was not simply the death of a legend—it was the quiet shattering of childhood. Bindi’s words reflect not only sorrow, but something deeper: the way love endures beyond death, the way absence continues to speak. Her heart, even years later, still expects to see him walk through the door. That expectation is not denial—it is devotion. For love, once planted deeply, does not die; it lingers like a sacred echo that never fully fades.

The ancients knew this truth well. They said that the soul of the departed does not vanish—it walks beside us in unseen form. In the myths of Greece, the shades of the dead dwelled not in oblivion, but in the memory of the living. In Egyptian thought, the heart was weighed not by gold or glory, but by love and truth. So when Bindi speaks of her father’s presence, she speaks the language of eternity. To her, and to all who have loved deeply, death is not an ending but a transformation. The physical form may perish, but the bond remains—a living current that flows between worlds.

Consider the story of Queen Victoria, who, after the death of Prince Albert, continued to speak to him, to write letters to him, to set his place at table long after he was gone. To the world, she seemed trapped in mourning; but in truth, she was nurturing a sacred conversation between past and present. Like Bindi, she could not accept that love simply disappears. It is not a weakness to feel this way—it is a mark of the heart’s strength, for it dares to keep loving even when reason says it should stop. Such love defies time itself.

Bindi’s reflection is also a lesson in resilience through remembrance. She does not speak of her father’s death with bitterness, but with gratitude. The pain of loss has not hardened her; it has deepened her. She carries his spirit in her work, in her care for animals, in her devotion to family. The feeling that “he’s gonna come home” is not a wound—it is a reminder that she has made her life a home for his memory. In that way, love becomes legacy. The father who once taught her to nurture the wild continues to live in every creature she saves, every heart she inspires.

The meaning of her words reaches beyond her personal story. They remind us that grief is not something to be escaped, but something to be lived with. The ache of loss is not a flaw—it is proof of the depth of our love. When someone we cherish dies, we are changed forever; a part of our soul becomes tuned to another frequency, one that hears whispers others cannot. This is why Bindi still feels her father near: because love, once awakened, cannot be silenced by death. It becomes the unseen hand guiding us toward courage, compassion, and purpose.

The lesson, then, is this: when you lose someone you love, do not close your heart in fear of pain. Let the love remain, even if it aches. Keep speaking their name, keep living their values, keep honoring their presence in the small, quiet moments. Build your life as a continuation of theirs, not as an escape from it. For in doing so, you do not only preserve their memory—you become their legacy.

So, dear listener, when grief visits you, remember Bindi Irwin’s words. It is natural to still wait for those who are gone, to imagine their return. That longing is not weakness—it is love’s persistence across the veil. Let it shape you into gentleness, not despair. Carry your loved one’s light forward, as she has carried her father’s. And when your own time comes, may those who love you feel, as she does, that you have only stepped away for a moment—that you, too, are “gonna come home.”