Forgiving My Father, Becoming Myself
June 06, 2025
What if my dad did love me? And what if the way I show up for my son is how I forgive the parts of him that couldn’t show up for me?
I’ve spent years holding my dad at a distance — not just physically, but emotionally.
I told myself he didn’t love me. That he was absent. That he shouted because he was cruel. That he didn’t care because he wasn’t there.
But maybe that wasn’t the full story.
Maybe it wasn’t even close.
Because when I really reflect — when I let the noise settle and I listen for what was real beneath the surface — I remember the way he introduced me to art, to music, to films. I remember his love for football and how he tried to share it with me. I remember the chocolate — maybe too much of it — and the decent meals he made sure I had. I remember him teaching me the basics of cooking, of self-care, of getting by.
And I remember the way he tried to discipline me.
Tried to teach me how to think for myself.
Tried to get through — even if he shouted, even if it missed the mark.
He told me he shouted to make me think.
It didn’t work. But maybe his intention wasn’t to harm.
Maybe it was to help, in the only way he knew how.
And now?
Now I sit with something I didn’t think I’d feel.
I forgive him.
It’s okay, man.
You loved me the way you knew how.
And I don’t hold anything against you.
Because I see it now — the impossible situation he was in.
How maybe he stayed in a relationship that drained him because it was the only way to be near us.
How maybe he thought if he left, he’d lose all contact with me.
How maybe he saw what kind of woman my mother was and felt ashamed — ashamed for bringing a child into that system and not knowing how to fix it.
He stayed.
He endured.
And maybe, in his own way, he protected me from the worst of it.
That reflection changes things.
It changes how I show up for my son.
It changes what I carry forward, and what I choose to lay down.
I want to be present.
I want to model a healthy relationship — even if that means leaving one that isn’t.
I want to set boundaries that allow me to give more, not less.
I want to love my son for who he is — not who I wish he was.
And I want to give him what my dad couldn’t give me clearly: safety, consistency, and full emotional presence.
But maybe the most healing realization?
My dad wasn’t the villain.
He was a man doing his best, in a broken system, with very few tools and very little support.
And in choosing to see him with compassion —
I choose to parent myself with compassion, too.
That’s how it ends.
That’s how it heals.
That’s how the cycle breaks.
And maybe, just maybe —
That’s how I become the father I always needed.