My Daddy Issues

There was a day when suddenly my father became human.

Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just enough for me to realize that the man I had quietly placed on a pedestal was, in fact, a man.

He let me down in a way I did not expect. I cannot even remember all the details now. What I do remember is how deeply it hurt.

I spent most of that season pretending I wasn't disappointed.

The rest of the time, I held on to bitterness.

Denial and unforgiveness are a dangerous combination. One refuses to acknowledge the wound. The other refuses to release it. Together, they create a burden that becomes so familiar you forget you're carrying it.

For years, I carried mine.

The first step was simply realizing it was there.

I had to admit that beneath my independence, beneath my competence, beneath my carefully curated "I'm fine," was a little girl who felt let down.

But the deeper truth was this: I had expected my father to be more than human.

I had held him to a standard no person could ever meet.

I expected him to be strong.

I expected him to always be there.

I expected him not to get sick.

And when he landed in ICU, I discovered just how much I had built my sense of security around him.

I was angry.

How could he do this?

How could he almost leave me?

How could he almost abandon me?

Of course, the rational part of me knew he hadn't chosen illness. Yet grief and fear are not rational companions. They reveal the expectations hidden beneath the surface.

My anger exposed mine.

I didn't just want a father.

I wanted a father who was invincible.

And there is no such thing.

Forgiveness came slowly.

Not because my father had to earn it, but because I had to release the fantasy of who I thought he should be.

I had to make peace with the fact that he was a human being carrying his own limitations, fears, weaknesses, and wounds.

Ironically, once I stopped seeing him as perfect, I could finally appreciate him properly.

I could see the gifts he gave me.

His silly sense of humour.

His friendliness.

His ability to stay on top of things.

His comfort with leisure and enjoyment.

The twinkle in his eye that could make almost any situation feel lighter.

I am, through and through, my father's daughter.

So much of who I am came from him.

The good and the not-so-good.

The warmth.

The curiosity.

The tendency to make people feel welcome.

And perhaps also the people-pleasing.

The desire to keep everyone happy.

The instinct to avoid disappointment and conflict.

As I've grown older, I've realized that inheritance is rarely neat. We receive strengths and shadows together. The work of adulthood is not rejecting either, but learning what to keep and what to heal.

Today, when I think of my father, I no longer think about the disappointment first.

I think about grace.

I think about a man who did many things well and some things imperfectly.

A man who loved me as best he could.

A man who was never meant to carry the weight of being my saviour.

Only God was ever meant to do that.

Maybe that is what growing up really is.

Not discovering that our parents are flawed.

But accepting that they always were... and loving them anyway.

My father became human.

And somehow, that made me love him more.