For a long time, the absence of my father was a silent ache I carried. It was the birthday cards that never came, the advice I had to find in books or within myself. As a child, I internalized his absence. I thought if I worked harder, achieved more, or simply tried harder to be “enough,” he might show up. He was there in a technical sense, he had a phone, he was around, we heard through my mom’s friends what he was up to, who he was dating what group of people he was with, so, i’m assuming they updated him with my where abouts. But physically and emotionally, he was never present. And that absence shaped me into looking for validation in the wrong places, taking turns of anger, isolation, and outbursts.
Years later, when I was a young adult, I tried to reconnect. I believed adulthood would level the playing field somehow. That maybe now, as equals, he would see me differently—see the person I had become, the person I worked so hard to be. I extended olive branches again and again. I filled in the silence. I held both sides of the conversation, hoping he’d meet me halfway. I hung onto every word like it was a rare treasure. He started to talk to me. He’d invite me here or there to something. But it was still empty, an attempt for him to rekindle our relationship that quickly died when i realized it was me doing the heavy lifting. After helping him get medical care he needed, planning visits with doctors and at home nurses, soon, each effort was met with the same quiet void, the same emotional distance I had grown up with, and even worse, he started having his new girlfriend respond to my messages and calls, who was always so trashed she’d slur her words.
Eventually, I had to face a truth that wasn’t easy: I couldn’t fix this. I couldn’t make someone want to show up. I couldn’t force love, presence, or emotional availability out of someone who didn’t know how to give it.
And so, I tried to let go, not out of anger or resentment, but out of peace and closure. I forgave him for being who he was. Not for me, but for himself. Because understanding someone is different than excusing them. I saw him as a whole person, flawed and limited, and I stopped waiting for him to become the version I needed.
This wasn’t some magically revalation that I got that and it all of a sudden clicked. This was years and years of tug-of-war on my emotions. I greived. It’s hard because he wasn’t actually dead. He had a chance to change and get off that death bed to do something about his daughter. but this was my bucket list for him, not his. He didn’t want this relationship. He was, at this point, a sperm donor.
This journey taught me something vital that applies far beyond just a father-child relationship: you can’t change people.
You can only change how you interact with them. You can change the expectations you hold, the boundaries you set, and the energy you pour into relationships. You can choose to release yourself from the endless cycle of disappointment and unmet hopes.
Relationships require mutual effort. Of course, there will be seasons when one person carries more: grief, illness, stress, they can throw things off balance. But when love is real and rooted in respect, that imbalance gets righted over time. You hold each other up when you can. You take turns. You show up. Reciprocity doesn’t have to be perfect, but it has to be present.
If you’re pouring from your cup and never feeling refilled, if you’re constantly stretching to meet someone halfway who won’t take a step, it might be time to view that relationship through a new lens. Not out of bitterness, but out of self-worth.
You deserve the kind of love and effort you give to others.
Sometimes, healing doesn’t come from fixing the relationship—it comes from accepting what it is, grieving what it isn’t, and freeing yourself to grow beyond it.
Who is someone in your life that isn’t showing up? Is this a person you can talk to and mend?
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