I was just a kid in this photo—shirt tucked in, clip-on tie, grinning like I didn’t have a care in the world. My dad had his arm around me, both of us looking like we were about to head off to some big important meeting. Back then, I thought my dad could do no wrong. He taught me how to tie my shoes, how to ride a bike, how to tell a joke that actually landed.
Then things changed, and honestly, I didn’t really understand it at the time. One day he was making pancakes in the kitchen, the next he was packing a bag and saying he needed to go “sort things out.” He tried to make it sound simple, but even as a kid I knew something was broken. Turned out, there was someone else—a woman from his work. My mom cried a lot. I didn’t really know what to do, so mostly I just stayed quiet and watched.
It took me years to figure out how to feel about all of it. People told me I should be angry, that I should never forgive him. But here’s the weird thing: even after all the hurt, I still see the guy who taught me to ride a bike, who used to scoop me up when I fell, who told me I could be anything if I worked hard enough. He messed up in ways I still can’t totally wrap my head around, but he’s human. Somehow, despite it all, he’s still my hero—just a flawed one.
I wonder if it’s possible to love someone and still be disappointed in them at the same time. I think about my dad a lot now that I’m older. I try to understand his actions, try to make sense of everything that happened. But no matter how hard I try, there are still gaps. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that maybe it wasn’t about understanding him entirely, but about accepting that I could love him without agreeing with everything he did.
As a teenager, I had a lot of mixed feelings. I didn’t know if I was supposed to hate him for leaving, or if I should just keep my distance and live my life. And I was angry. I was angry at him, but I was angry at my mom too. She never really told me much about why he left, just that he wasn’t the same anymore. He’d made promises to fix things, but none of them really stuck.
I remember the first time I saw him again after the divorce. It had been a few years, and I didn’t recognize the man standing in front of me. The same man who used to lift me on his shoulders at the park and tell me I was his pride and joy was now standing awkwardly in my living room, unsure of what to say. He was with the woman he left my mom for, and they seemed happy. In a way, it made me more angry—how could he just move on like that? How could he be so content when he had torn our world apart?
But as I stood there, I remembered something that had slipped my mind over the years. I remembered how he used to encourage me to try everything, to never give up, how he taught me how to believe in myself when no one else did. In that moment, I realized that I wasn’t angry at him for moving on—I was angry because I felt abandoned. He hadn’t just left my mom; he had left me too. But what hurt the most was that I felt like I had lost a piece of myself when he walked out that door.
Over time, I did what most people do: I buried it. I buried the resentment, buried the pain, and moved on. I learned how to deal with it on my own. But that’s the funny thing about life—it doesn’t let you hide from your feelings forever. The more I tried to ignore my dad and the pain he caused, the more it followed me. It wasn’t until I got older, into my twenties, that I started to process everything and realize how important it was for me to heal, not just for my own sake, but for the sake of the person I had become.
And that’s when it hit me. No matter how flawed my dad was, he still played a role in shaping me. All the good lessons, the life skills, the support when I needed it most, they came from him. He wasn’t perfect, but who is? He made mistakes, like all of us do. Maybe it was the way he handled things that wasn’t great, but it didn’t change the fact that he had tried. He had tried in his own way, and I was still here, still standing.
It wasn’t easy, but over the years, I began to rebuild my relationship with him. It wasn’t a fairytale reunion or anything like that, but we started talking again. Slowly. He apologized for the way he left, and he admitted that he hadn’t been the father I deserved. I didn’t expect him to say that, but hearing it was exactly what I needed. For the first time, I felt like he saw me—not just as his son, but as a person with my own feelings, my own scars.
Our conversations weren’t always comfortable. Sometimes I’d get angry again, or he’d say something that would make me feel like I was back to square one. But there was also growth, and that was enough. We talked about the past, about the mistakes, about what could have been different. And while we couldn’t change what had happened, we both realized we could do better moving forward.
The twist came when I was planning a trip to visit some old family friends, people I hadn’t seen in years. I was nervous about seeing everyone again, especially after everything that had happened. When I mentioned it to my dad, he said, “I know I haven’t been perfect, but I want to make things right. I want to be there for you. I want to be there for your life now, not just the past.”
At first, I didn’t know how to react. It felt like he was offering me a second chance at something I didn’t know I wanted. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to forgive him completely, or if I even could. But I realized something important that day: forgiveness isn’t about excusing the past—it’s about freeing yourself from it. And maybe, just maybe, I was ready to let go of the anger that had been eating at me for all these years.
When I arrived at the family gathering, I expected things to be awkward. But it wasn’t. People smiled when they saw me, and I realized they’d never really stopped caring. As we all talked and laughed like we used to, I saw my dad standing off to the side, watching me with a look in his eyes I hadn’t seen before—pride. He didn’t need to say anything. I could tell that in his own way, he was proud of who I had become, despite the things that had happened.
And then something unexpected happened. One of the family friends, an older woman who had known my parents for years, pulled me aside. “Your father’s always been proud of you,” she said, with a soft smile. “He made some mistakes, but he always loved you. I think you’ll see that more and more as you get older.”
Hearing that was like a weight lifting off my shoulders. In that moment, I realized that forgiveness didn’t mean I had to erase the past. It meant acknowledging that the good and the bad could exist together, and that sometimes, healing is messy and imperfect. But that doesn’t mean it’s not worth it.
The life lesson I took from all of this is simple: we all make mistakes, and sometimes those mistakes hurt others in ways we can’t undo. But healing doesn’t come from holding onto the pain—it comes from understanding that love can survive, even in the midst of imperfection. My dad wasn’t perfect, but he was still my dad, and he still shaped me into the person I am today.
I’m proud of who I’ve become, and despite the pain, I’m grateful for the lessons—both the good and the bad—that led me here.
If you’ve ever felt betrayed or let down by someone you love, I encourage you to remember that forgiveness is a journey. It doesn’t happen overnight, and it doesn’t mean forgetting. But it does mean giving yourself the freedom to move forward, to let go, and to embrace the person you are becoming.
If you think this might resonate with someone you know, don’t hesitate t
