Father’s Day used to hit different. Not in the sentimental, grilled-steaks-and-happy-memories kind of way, but in the gut. In the ache. In the “what about me?” silence I never spoke out loud.
I have two fathers.
One gave me life.
The other gave me structure.
My biological dad left when I was around six years old. I remember pieces of it—moments that don’t feel real until I say them out loud. The absence? That felt permanent. It’s wild how a little girl can memorize the shape of a missing man. Not his face, but the space he left behind.
By the time I was eight or nine, I met my stepdad. He wasn’t perfect, and we had our issues—I won't sugarcoat it—but if it wasn’t for him teaching me how to play basketball, I would have never gone to college. Would have never gotten a degree. Would have never known I could actually be good at something.
So yeah, I honor that. I respect that. Even if it came with complications.
But the pain of watching my real dad build a new life, with a new wife and her kids—being there for them when he missed out on us? That kind of stuff bruises you in places you don’t realize until adulthood. You think you’re over it. You think you’re healed. Until Father’s Day rolls around and suddenly you’re scrolling past IG tributes wondering why your throat feels tight.
I eventually reconnected with my real dad. I stopped ignoring his calls. I stopped ghosting his efforts. It wasn’t because everything magically healed—it was because I realized something: I was going to become a mother.
And no matter what happened to me as a child, I didn’t want my kids carrying my pain like it was theirs.
I had to suck that shit up. I had to face the discomfort, the abandonment, the confusion.
I had to look my daddy issues in the eye and say, “You’re not driving this anymore.”
Because life sucks sometimes.
And it sucks even more when bad things happen to kids—when innocence gets traded for silence and kids get taught to “be strong” before they’ve even learned how to speak their pain.
So this Father’s Day, I want to talk to anyone who feels weird, bitter, heartbroken, confused, guilty, or numb.
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You don’t owe anyone a Hallmark post.
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You don’t have to pretend your pain doesn’t exist.
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You don’t have to feel guilty if the man you call “Dad” isn’t your biological father.
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And you don’t have to hate someone forever, even if they hurt you deeply.
Maybe your healing looks like setting boundaries.
Maybe it looks like returning a text without venom.
Maybe it’s just you sitting alone today, choosing to feel everything you weren’t allowed to feel as a kid.
Whatever it looks like—I see you.
I’m still learning how to honor both men.
I’m still grieving the parts of me that never got a full dad.
But I’m also raising my kids with the love I wish I had more of. And that means something.
That means everything.
