As Father’s Day and my dad’s 77th birthday approach, I find myself once again in a vulnerable, sad place. For me, Father’s Day can be painful as I grieve the relationship I’ll likely never have with my dad. It’s gotten easier over the years, but part of me may never fully heal—and I’m learning to make peace with that.
Sometimes, in a conversation with a friend or my therapist, I’ll suddenly realize, “Oh—this seemingly unrelated issue I’m struggling with, it’s about my dad, isn’t it?” Sometimes I feel angry that I’m still dealing with this at 41 years old, when he should be the one carrying the weight of his choices. I get tired of doing the work and reparenting myself while actively parenting my three incredible children. Tired of longing for something that likely won’t come. But this is my reality. And I’ve chosen to face it honestly, to keep doing the hard work of healing.
I’ve gotten really good at dissociating for long periods of time, but that’s never a real fix. It’s a temporary bandage for a gaping wound that eventually bleeds through. It shows up in dreams where the rejection still stings, in anxiety, in overperforming, in moments when I crave approval that shouldn’t matter anymore. I used to think I could outrun the grief. Now I know I have to let it wash over me like a wave. I ride it out, knowing it won’t last forever and that I’m strong enough to stay afloat.
The truth is, I’ve never stopped loving my dad. If he showed up today wanting a relationship, I’d be completely open to it—with healthy boundaries. That’s what love is and does. But love doesn’t mean self-abandonment. I know I did everything I could. The only thing that might have convinced him to be in a relationship is a price I’m no longer willing to pay. I won’t sacrifice parts of myself or my voice. I’ve thought about writing him a letter, but I’m not sure there’s anything left to say.
My dad’s approval often felt like a dangling carrot, always there but just out of reach. An ever-moving target. He told me he loved me, but I longed to hear more. Like every little girl, I wanted to know he was proud of me, that he thought I was beautiful, that he’d always be there. Over time, I internalized the belief that if I could just be smart enough, good enough, agreeable enough, I could keep his love.
I thought earning the right grades and several scholarships—including a full academic one—would finally be enough. But nothing ever was. My dad and stepmom didn’t speak to me at all during my senior year of high school—milestones came and went, including my birthday, holidays, and graduation, without a word from them. I reached out that summer for his birthday and Father’s Day, trying to mend things. I walked on eggshells, desperate to be enough.
In college, a therapist helped me begin to untangle all of this. He encouraged me to put the ball in my dad’s court. I asked my dad if we could start having daddy-daughter dates. He told me he’d have to check with his wife, as he wasn’t sure she’d like that. He never got back to me. And there was my answer.
One memory still echoes sharply: I was 16, visiting their new six-bedroom home two hours away. I excitedly told my stepmom I couldn’t wait for us to decorate my room together. She replied coolly, “You don’t come often enough to have your own room. You can sleep in the guest room like everyone else.” That moment made it clear—I wasn’t just a visitor in their house. I was a visitor in their lives.
Over time, I’ve realized how much I longed to be rescued. To be chosen. I thought marrying my wonderful husband would magically fix all my “daddy issues.” But I eventually realized I had to rescue myself. I had to choose myself—over and over again. That work is ongoing. There are still moments when I feel like a little girl again, desperate for approval, bracing for disappointment.
One of the hardest things to admit is how much this wound shaped my view of myself—especially in how I sought validation from men. My therapist once pointed out how focused I was on the male gaze. I assumed that was just part of being a woman. But after honest conversations with friends, I realized it wasn’t universal, though it’s common in women with emotionally unavailable fathers. I had to learn I am not more lovable if I’m more desirable. I don’t have to earn my worth.
I’m not into toxic positivity, so I won’t say I’m glad this happened in any way. But I am grateful for the ways I’ve chosen to do the work and keep showing up in my life and my family in an authentic way. I’m proud of the boundaries I’ve set, even when it hurts. I’m thankful I’ve faced the hard things—day after day—even when dissociating felt easier. And I’m glad that, through it all, I’ve kept my heart open and tender.
I debated whether to share this publicly, whether this was something I needed to continue to process on my own, or if it needed to be shared. One of my favorite authors, Emily P. Freeman, says when deciding if it’s time to share a personal story, she asks herself: Who benefits most if I don’t share? Who benefits most if I do? And who am I protecting by either sharing or not sharing it? I wrote this anonymous post last year. That felt like the right first step at the time—and this feels like the right step now. I’m sharing this because I believe in the power of telling and owning our stories, and because I know too many women carry this same wound.
We’re more open about how Mother’s Day can bring grief and complexity, and that’s so important. But Father’s Day holds its own quiet, often unspoken pain for many. If that’s you, I want you to know: you are not alone. I see you. You are worth knowing and loving.
If Father’s Day feels hard for you, I would encourage you to let yourself feel all the things. Cry when you need to. Talk with someone you trust who can hold space for your story—whether that’s a close friend or a therapist. And keep showing up in your life as the beautiful, worthy human you are. Keep doing the hard, holy work of healing. It matters. You matter. You are enough.
