My Father

 My relationship with my dad has always felt like trying to hold water in my hands—just when I think I have something solid, it slips through.

Growing up, he was hot and cold. His mood often depended on how work went that day. Sometimes he’d be playful and warm, and other times distant, irritated, or completely checked out. I remember him going for drives—long ones—and rarely inviting me to come. I just remember feeling like I wanted to be close to him and not knowing how to reach him.

As I got older, I really tried. I asked him to spend time with me, and it felt like pulling teeth. But when he finally said yes, we always had a good time. Dinner and a Fast & Furious movie—it became our thing. I didn’t even care for the movies, but I loved that he was sitting next to me, laughing with me, present. For a moment, I felt like I had a dad I could connect with.

But then, like clockwork, things would shift. He’d contradict the connection we’d just built. One week he’d say he understood my feelings, that mom could be too strict. He’d talk to me like an ally, and I’d let myself hope he saw me. Then, weeks later, he’d flip—yelling at me for the same things he’d once said he understood, like spending time with my boyfriend. It always felt like emotional whiplash.

He came from a big, lively family. One of nine kids, full of mischief and fun. His siblings—my aunts—still carry that light, and I feel closer to them than I do to him. They tell me he used to be fun, that they don’t recognize who he’s become. Somewhere along the way, he hardened. Now he’s self-righteous, selective with his empathy—unless he’s performing it for a stranger or a church crowd.

And maybe that’s what hurts the most: it feels like he only values appearances. Like being seen doing good matters more than actually being close, actually being present.

I’ve come to believe that because I don’t need him, he has no use for me. Same with Mom. They need to feel needed to feel important. And since I’ve tried to stand on my own, set boundaries, and become my own person—I’ve become invisible to them. Disposable.

Still, there’s a part of me that remembers those movie nights. That little sliver of warmth I held onto. I think I’ll always wish there had been more of that. That he had let himself stay soft with me. That he had chosen connection over control.

But I know now: I can love the memories without letting them rewrite the reality.

I can grieve what I didn’t get, and still give myself what I needed all along.

I am not nothing. I am not invisible.

I see me—even when they never could.

Affirmation:

I am not defined by the love I didn’t receive.

I am whole, even when others couldn’t show up for me.

My presence matters. My voice matters. I matter.

I give myself the consistency, compassion, and care they could not.

I am enough—as I am, and on my own