If you had asked me, a year ago, what I might one day write about in my father’s eulogy, I doubt I would have said feminism and structural misogyny in the Harvey Weinstein era.

But when my dad unexpectedly passed away last December, that is exactly what kept circling around in my head. You see, Dad and I had had a falling-out about the #MeToo movement several weeks earlier, and our hours-long overseas phone call resolving that argument was one of the last heartfelt conversations we had. It genuinely brought us closer together. Now, a year after #MeToo, as I reflect on how the world has changed over the past year, I wonder if enough dads and daughters have had these talks.

I hated disagreeing with him, and I knew it would upset him if I challenged him on #MeToo. Now I'm so glad I did

I recently read a column about daughters protecting their fathers from their sexual assault stories. I can identify with that; my dad was my closest confidant, role model, and the person I looked up to most. I hated disagreeing with him, and I knew it would upset him if I challenged him on his #MeToo comments.

Now, I am so glad I did.

Do not get me wrong. Dad was in many ways a feminist. He demonstrated that in his personal and professional life. He knew women deserve the same freedoms and opportunities as men; he married a smart, confident doctor and they raised me to believe I could do anything I wanted.

What I took issue with, however, was my father’s belief that the #MeToo battle was not his to fight. Like many men, he remained silent when my mum and I, and many other woman we knew, posted about our sexual harassment or assault experiences on social media. In fact, I had been posting similar things for years, and while my dad never disbelieved those stories, he also never reached out to talk about them. Once he actually told me I had a tendency to “overshare”. And when the #MeToo hashtag gained steam last year, he wanted to be sure I knew that not all men were perpetrators.

I could tell Dad had no idea how frustrated this made me. I called him one night, and was so upset I could barely choke out any words through my tears. He was at work and there was a seven-hour time difference, but he was audibly shocked, and agreed to arrange a time for a proper conversation that weekend. In the meantime, I assembled and sent him a document with terminology, from “mansplaining” to “emotional labour”, and links to articles on how men should respond to the movement.

Because my dad and I were so close, I knew he would take it seriously. By the time we spoke, he had read every article I sent and discussed them with my mother too. He listened to me for hours, and we ran through scenarios in which he might have upset women in his life. We also talked about how he could use his platforms – his popularity on Twitter, for example, and his position as the chief executive of a small business – to effect change.

I could tell Dad disagreed with me at times, but he bit his tongue and continued to make an effort. He said he never wanted to become a “stuffy old guy”, set in his ways, and he certainly did not want me to see him as such. He told me he did not want there to be anything I felt I could not discuss with him.

Over the past year, a number of men have privately thanked me for bringing everyday sexism to their attention through my willingness to talk openly about it. Others, however, have clearly not been paying attention.

One middle-aged friend leaps to mind. Every time I am harassed and publicise it on Facebook, this man responds as though it were a one-off incident. He gets defensive when my friends or I point to the structural sexism we face, and suggests there are simply good people and bad people but it has nothing to do with gender.

This worries me, because he has a teenage daughter. Statistically speaking, she is likely to experience some form of sexual harassment or assault in her life, if she hasn’t already. I desperately want to tell him to get over himself and start listening to women – for her sake. One day his daughter is going to need someone to talk to, and I hope she feels she can turn to him.

So, fathers: when your daughters open up about the disadvantages and dangers they face, listen to and believe them. Do not make them think they must bear those burdens alone. Put your politics, or your hypotheticals, or your righteous indignation, aside. Acknowledge that for your daughters, sexual harassment is not theoretical but most likely very real, and they could probably use a friendly ear.

And, daughters: while it is not our job to educate the men around us, consider starting a conversation if you feel you can. We can change the world, one mindset at a time, and for me that started with my dad.

I remember telling him, after our phone call, how relieved I was that he had been open to criticism and willing to change. I told him I had always respected him, and wanted to be able to continue doing so. I did not know how little time we had left together but, because of that heart-to-heart last year, I can now honestly say I will respect him for the rest of my life.

Had a 2 hour conversation with my daughter about #MeToo. I learned a lot, and will be a better ally. Dads, talk to your daughters. — Bob Crowe (@bob_crowe) October 22, 2017

And in the end, writing his eulogy was easy: “Dad made every effort to better understand the world from my perspective, and had no problem admitting he could be wrong,” I wrote. “He proved that everyone can learn, change, and continue to progress – even, as he would say, ‘old dudes’ like himself.”

This year, as the #MeToo hashtag resurfaces, I will be thinking of my dad. And I will find comfort in knowing he used his platform to broadcast his support for women. As I browse his Twitter feed for the message he sent after our talk, I realise just how many more times he voiced his support in the ensuing weeks. He never mentioned it; he was not looking for praise. I know he did it because he had come to understand just how important it was.

• Portia Crowe is a journalist