Happy Father’s Day
As I sit here with all the complex emotions of this day, I feel hungry to know I’m not alone, to feel deeply understood. I couldn’t find anything that fit, so I decided to write my thoughts, my feelings, and a letter to my dad.
To the one reading this who is searching to know you aren’t alone, hear me clearly: you are not alone. I am so sorry you’ve had to carry this kind of grief. It isn’t one that is common or talked about which makes you feel like you are doing something wrong. I see you. I hear you. I am you.
To the one reading this who wants to better understand or maybe someone sent this to you, I hope this shines a light on a broken relationship that most likely won’t heal, that lingers like a shadow and always has you feeling the weight of the what if’s.
My Relationship With My Dad
Some of my earliest memories are of my parents fighting. Shortly after, it was just my mom and me baking in the kitchen, listening to Britney Spears in the car, and being amazed by who my mom was.
I want to say I remember my dad leaving, pulling out of the driveway toward a new city, new state, new life but I honestly don’t know if that memory is real or something my mind created to make sense of the loss.
He moved away, and it feels like he took my memories with him. I have memories, but they feel like only 20% of my life. I know there is more, but when I look back at ages 3 to 16, I feel like big pieces are missing.
I remember seeing him periodically. Then he moved back for a time, and my memories of him revolve around who he was dating, the new places he lived, the different cities, and the things he would show me.
I also remember the times he didn’t show up, the dance recitals, school performances, sports games. My mom had full custody, but she was kind and wanted me to have a relationship with my dad, so she worked hard to make visits happen.
Back then, our time together just felt different than my mom’s house, so it seemed fun. As an adult with kids of my own, I now see that I don’t think he ever knew how to be a dad, how to raise a girl and love a daughter.
I could go on. I have plenty of stories that would earn sympathy, but that’s not what I want. I don’t want pity. I just want to feel seen.
This isn’t about airing his dirty laundry. It’s about what I’ve come to understand.
The Grief of Someone Still Living
Having a dad who is alive but not in your life is a strange kind of grief. When you meet someone new and try to explain your family, you have to decide if they’re safe, if you’re ready to be vulnerable, or if you’ll just smile and keep it vague. It’s grieving someone who is still alive and grieving the life you thought you would have.
It’s been 8 years since I heard his voice.
I chose no contact to protect my heart from the roller coaster of feeling wanted one moment and forgotten the next. I was tired of not being chosen. I set the boundary with the window open, hoping things could change.
My husband and I agreed that if my dad could be consistent with my husband for 6 months, I’d slowly step back in. Eight years later, that call has never come. Setting the boundary that way almost hurt more because again, he didn’t choose me. He still isn’t choosing me. That reality aches every day.
I’ve spent years in counseling for my relationship with my dad and the trauma intertwined with it. I didn’t realize until recently how much this relationship or its absence has shaped every area of my life, even the parts he wasn’t around for.
More than once, counselors have encouraged me to treat him as if he were dead, to write him off in my mind so I can move forward without the weight of longing. It always sounds possible in theory, but in reality, it isn’t happening.
I think about him daily.
I often imagine hugging him. Then reality sets in, I don’t really want a hug from him. I want a hug from the idea of him. At weddings or father daughter dances, I crumble.
I am grieving something I can’t have but always dreamed of. The idea of my kids calling him Grandpa and wrestling with him feels like a fading dream.
I wonder if he still lives in the same state. If he has a good job. If he loves Jesus. If he has friends. I wonder if he thinks about me. I wonder why I felt so hard to love. Why he chose girlfriends, alcohol, smoking, and anxiety over me. How the little girl who thought so highly of her daddy was never enough.
Those kinds of questions aren’t what it looks like to write someone off as dead. That’s the tension of grieving someone who is alive.
It is a complex grief.
There’s no marked day people remember. No anniversary post. No gathering where stories are shared. It’s mostly internal, a constant battle between my brain and my heart. My brain says, “Walk away.” My heart is still clinging to hope, hope that one day he might actually choose me. Even typing that feels like a punch to the gut. It’s a pain that forces me to live in the both and.
He is clearly broken. He has his own trauma. He has made choices that would shock you. He is broken and he chose things that broke me. Both are true. I pray for him. Whether or not we ever talk again, I pray that he knows Jesus. I don’t need an apology or for him to make up for lost time. I don’t need anything from him.
But I do pray for his salvation because, at the end of the day, he is my dad. I would love to see him in heaven. I would love to know he chose Jesus.
To My Dad
Eight years since I heard your voice.
I miss hearing your voice, but I don’t miss the feeling in my stomach when your name lit up my phone or how quickly my heart believed you when you said you had changed.
I’m sorry you’ve missed so much; grandkids, graduations, buying houses, promotions, and everything in between. When I think of all you’ve missed, my heart hurts for you. Your life could be so much fuller if you only knew.
Eight years is a long time. I hope somewhere in those years you’ve felt sadness, regret, maybe even conviction. I know I have. I wish you knew how much I miss you or at least the idea of you. The thought of calling you when something breaks at my house. Seeing you at my kids’ events. My kids don’t even know you exist, and yet sometimes I still see you in them.
I wish things were different, but I finally had to protect myself. The ball is still in your court. You could still call my husband.
Whether you choose me or not, please choose Jesus. He loves you more than anything. He knows your flaws, weaknesses, fears, and regrets and he still wants you.
I pray that you are well. I pray that you are healthy. And even though I feel broken when I think of you, I pray that you have found some measure of joy.
I pray that one day, when all things are made right before the King of Kings, I will get that hug from you that my heart still longs for.
Until then,
Your daughter
To Friends and Loved Ones
The fact that you are reading this shows you care. Thank you for taking the time to understand a kind of pain that may be unfamiliar to you. You may have a great relationship with your dad, and I want you to know I am genuinely happy for you.
I do want to take a brief time to share some tricks. Some things that I know meant well but didn’t land well. If you are reading this and feel called out, that’s not my intention, I appreciate you caring and I know your heart behind each of these comments, I’m not upset, just educating.
One thing I heard a lot was, “Don’t worry, my dad can be your dad.” It was such a kind idea, and for a while, it helped. But then I wouldn’t get invited to family events, or I’d start to feel like a leach. I would start to wrestle with not being good enough or did I do something wrong. It’s the fact that I’m not really family, so why would I think I could just jump in. My desperation for filling that hole and that comment would give me a glimmer of hope that is really setting me up for failure.
When you talk about how awful my dad is and go on a rant, yes, I know those things. But it still hurts. He is still my dad, and somehow I end up wanting to defend him.
When you tell me you’re going to beat him up, I honestly don’t know how to respond. I know your heart is kind, but I can’t even find him. I’ve tried. Good luck.
If I’m sharing my hurt with you, please don’t immediately jump to your own family pain. I am truly sorry for what you’ve been through. But when I open this part of myself, I’m being vulnerable. Please let me feel seen. When the conversation shifts too quickly, I feel like I have to pull myself together to take care of you instead.
What helps is asking. Ask how I’m doing, especially on holidays. Acknowledgment goes a long way, it won’t trigger my emotions because most likely it’s been constantly on my brain. To know you remember my struggle and pain is something that comforts me and makes me feel loved.
A Final Thought
Some losses don’t come with funerals. Some grief isn’t loud. Sometimes it looks like a little girl growing up still wondering why she wasn’t chosen. Sometimes it looks like a grown woman realizing she was never the problem. Sometimes it looks like praying for someone who hurt you. Sometimes it looks like writing a letter you’ll probably never send on Father’s Day, because somewhere deep down you still hope someone else understands.
For a long time, I thought healing meant getting answers, an apology, a phone call, a changed relationship. Now I think healing looks more like holding the both and, the grief and the gratitude, the hurt and the hope, the reality of what was and the dream of what could have been.
I don’t know if I’ll ever stop wondering about my dad. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop hoping. But I do know this, God has been faithful where people have not. He has carried the parts of this grief that felt too heavy for me to hold. And while this story isn’t tied up in a neat bow, I trust that one day He will make all things right. Until then, I will keep praying. I will keep healing. And I will keep hoping.
If you’re reading this because your story looks a little like mine, I hope you know this, you are not alone.
Happy Father’s Day, from one daughter who still wonders, still healing and still hopes.
Clinging to Hope 