The Grief of Not Being Seen

It’s been eight years since my dad died.
I don’t even know the exact date. That says a lot, I think.

Growing up, the version of him I was left with was one painted by my mum — a man who was angry, resentful, and sad.

And to be honest, some of that was true.
He hurt me. Physically. Emotionally. He embarrassed me. He failed to protect me.
That’s real.

But it’s not the whole story.
Not anymore.

✏️ Journal Prompt:
How was your father spoken about in your family?
Is that the full truth — or just one version?

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There were flashes in him.
Moments of joy that I never saw in my mum.

He came alive around the dogs.
He had peace watching films.
He told terrible jokes — truly awful ones — but he loved them. And in those moments, he lit up like a child being seen.

Those small joys were him: playful, awkward, out of step, but unmistakably present.

He also loved chess and Scrabble.
He lived by a rhythm — a quiet, structured survival.

Not a life filled with deep emotional connection, but one he managed to make work.

And I carry some of that in me, too.

✏️ Journal Prompt:
Are there quiet traits or routines you’ve inherited from your father — even the ones you didn’t expect?

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Especially the music.
He loved it. Deeply.
And now I find myself playing the same songs when I’m decorating or walking through the house.
It keeps something alive.
It keeps him alive.

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At his funeral, I cried.
Maybe the only one who did.

People told me not to — that I shouldn’t.

But I wasn’t crying for what we had.
I was crying for what we never had.

That’s the grief I still carry.
The absence. The empty space where a real connection could’ve been.

✏️ Journal Prompt:
What losses in your life are more about what never happened than what did?

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I used to see him as weak for staying with my mum.
Now, I wonder if he was just stuck.

Worn down by her control.
Trapped in a system where nothing he did would be enough.

Maybe he saw how she used me to meet her needs.
Maybe he knew that trying to pull me away would only backfire.

I wonder if that’s why he told me to “go off with your mother” so many times.
Maybe that was his way of protecting me — or the only option he thought he had.

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✏️ Journal Prompt:
What compassion have you found for people you once judged harshly?
What new perspectives have softened your grief?

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I wish we’d had a chance to talk as adults.
I think I’d understand him more now.

Not to excuse the pain — but to see the fuller picture.

He was messy. Human. He was hurting.
And still, he found ways to laugh.
To keep structure.
To survive.

That alone is more than I can say for some.

My mum, for example — I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her experience joy.
But he did.
And I think he tried to hold onto it, in the only ways he knew how.

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I carry some of that now.
The music. The structure. The silliness.

Maybe that’s a kind of connection too.

✏️ Final Reflection:
If you never truly knew your father, what would you want to say now?
And what might be waiting in you to be grieved — or remembered?

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If you’ve lost someone you never really had the chance to know, you’re not alone.
Grieving the absence — the “what could’ve been” — is just as real.

Sometimes, remembering with compassion is the first step toward healing.