I thought I’d moved past this, but my recent therapy session revealed otherwise. Apparently, I’m still living the childhood cliché of healing from Daddy Issues. As much as I’d like to believe I’ve let it all go, the lingering ache tells another story.
For years, I’ve wrestled with what it means to move on from the past. My struggles with creativity, perfectionism, and fear of judgment all seem tied to this unresolved pain. I keep wondering—how much of my self-doubt comes from the childhood longing for a relationship with my father that never existed?
Here’s the story of my dad—or more precisely, of me and my dad—and my journey toward healing from Daddy Issues.
Thirty years ago, my dad was my superhero. His biceps mesmerized me. I never saw him go to the gym, but I didn’t question it. To me, he was just strong. I believed men were naturally stronger than women, and I saw him as powerful. My mom, on the other hand, didn’t seem strong or powerful—just my dad.
However, cracks started to show. At first, he’d go on work trips and return with gifts from faraway places. I remember one Christmas when he gave me Black Hills gold rose earrings, which I still have. These small gestures made me feel like he cared. But eventually, the gifts stopped—and so did the feeling that he was truly “home.”
Things shifted further when we moved to Idaho. My parents didn’t relocate for a better life; they moved to escape their families, find less traffic, and save money on housing. Looking back, I realize how much my dad valued money and power.
In California, he had been a small fish in a big pond. Idaho turned him into a big fish in a much smaller pond. My friends often commented on our nice house and belongings. Deep down, I knew we could never have afforded that lifestyle in California, even with all the money he earned as a pilot.
The move to Idaho marked the beginning of his physical and emotional absence. His work trips increased, and he seemed less involved in our lives. That’s when I made a conscious decision not to care whether he was around. I was tired of the disruption every time he came or went. Since he didn’t seem to care about me, I taught myself not to care about him.
Still, no matter how much I tried, life shifted whenever he came home. Mom let us live in a more relaxed way when he was gone—dishes could sit in the dishwasher, and we could roughhouse in the living room. But his returns brought stress.
Instead of joining our family routine, he expected us to adapt to him. Preparing for his arrival became a ritual. We didn’t just tidy up; we deep-cleaned, often in a frenzy. Once he left, we finally relaxed. The house could breathe again. His high expectations for how his home should be kept—and how we should treat him—didn’t align with the reality of our family.
Over time, it became painfully clear that he chose himself over us again and again. I couldn’t help but wonder how much of my need to “keep things perfect” stemmed from him. I also wondered how much of my healing would require undoing those learned patterns.
One thing about my dad: he loves telling stories about himself. He’s told his favorites so many times that they’re permanently etched in my memory.
One story stands out. He often describes his first night away for work, after landing his dream job as a pilot. He says he stood in an empty hotel room, looking out the window, thinking, “I hate this job, and I miss my family.” Those words stayed with me. Yet, over thirty years later, he’s still with the same company.
So, was he lying about loving us? Did he get stuck? Or did he leave us in a way I didn’t fully understand? I like to think he got stuck. But flying planes was his dream—his words, not mine. I’ve never heard him say that having a family was his dream. I’ve never heard him say I, his firstborn, was his dream.
Maybe I wasn’t.
But if I’m honest, I wish I had healthy parents. Instead, I have this mess. My process of learning and healing from Daddy Issues has taught me to redefine family for myself. Writing these stories helps me understand what happened. It allows me to find compassion for my parents and, most importantly, find compassion for myself.
Even though my dad didn’t choose me as his dream, I can choose what to carry forward. I can fill in the gaps they left and learn the tools they never acquired. Rewriting the story for myself may be the only way to fully embrace healing from Daddy Issues.
So here I am, years into a no-contact relationship—not because I don’t care, but because I’ve chosen to care for myself first. In many ways, this blog represents my commitment to growth and healing from Daddy Issues—to moving forward by letting go of what I can’t change and choosing what I can.
