For the longest time, I didn’t even realize I was carrying a wound.
It lived inside me like a quiet storm — invisible to the outside world, but always whispering in the background: “You’re not safe. You’re not wanted. You’re not enough.”

My relationship with men has always felt… complicated.
But if I trace the thread back, all roads lead to the very first man I ever knew: my father.

He left when I was six. Or maybe more accurately, my mother made the decision to remove him from our lives. And looking back now, I’m so deeply thankful she did. I don’t remember much about him, just the echoes — the yelling, the fear, the emptiness. He was never really there. Not for me. Not for my younger brother. Not for anyone except maybe the alcohol and the late-night clubs.

He had the title of “dad,” but never the heart.

As a child, I remember nights alone with my brother while our mother worked, my father god-knows-where. When he did show up, the energy shifted into chaos. There were screaming matches, guilt trips, emotional manipulation — all of it under the guise of “family.” At some point, I realized that every time we left his home, my brother and I came back colder, crueler, and more distant from our mother. It was like his toxicity seeped into our bones.

And then came the moment I decided: I don’t want to be this version of myself anymore.
I stopped going. I stopped answering. I stopped participating in the illusion that he was a father.

I was maybe twelve. Maybe younger. But I remember the clarity — the deep, soul-level knowing that this wasn’t love. That his presence made me feel small, invisible, and ashamed.
Even later, when he remarried a woman with two daughters, it was the same cycle. False warmth, followed by bitterness and control. And eventually, the cold shoulder when I stopped playing along.

To this day, I don’t think he ever really knew me.
He knew how to criticize.
He knew how to disappear.
But love me?
No.
That was never something he was capable of.

The Aftermath

When a girl doesn’t receive love, protection, and presence from her father, she starts building her understanding of the masculine on shaky, broken ground.
I grew up feeling like men were either dangerous, weak, or manipulative.
That they only cared about control, pleasure, or their own comfort.
And over time, I internalized those beliefs: Don’t trust them. Don’t rely on them. Don’t expect anything from them.

It’s taken me years to admit that these weren’t just “opinions” — they were trauma responses.

The masculine energy in my life has always felt distorted. Even my stepfather, who entered the picture later, became just another figure who judged me for setting boundaries or speaking my truth.
He once threw my own words back at me — something I don’t even remember saying — about how I called him “just another loser entering our lives.” I might’ve said it. I might not have. But if I did, it was coming from a place of deep fatigue. I had seen enough broken men by then to know the pattern.

The Breakthrough

I didn’t believe in good men — not really — until I worked on a ship with men who were loyal to their wives, who showed up for their families, who treated others with integrity. That was the first time my inner narrative began to crack.
Could men actually be safe? Could they be stable?

And now, in my first real relationship — one I entered at 26 — I’m finally facing the full force of the father wound.

Because here’s the truth no one tells you:
When you meet someone who actually touches your soul, they also awaken every place inside you that still hurts.
My partner triggers me in ways I didn’t even know possible — not because he’s doing anything wrong, but because my nervous system is still wired to expect abandonment, rejection, and neglect.

He represents every piece of my trauma… and yet, he also offers the potential to heal it.
This relationship is not just romantic.
It’s sacred medicine.

What I’ve Learned

1. You can’t force someone to grow.
   I used to think I could help others evolve, but I’ve learned that unless someone wants to change, nothing you say will matter. Healing is a personal choice — one that must come from within. And if someone’s still clinging to their illusions, you’ll just exhaust yourself trying to save them.
2. My peace matters more than anyone’s ego.
   I’ve been labeled difficult, dramatic, cold, harsh — especially when I’ve spoken my truth. But I no longer allow that to silence me. I choose my peace. I choose my truth. And if that makes me “too much” for someone… they were never meant to sit at my table.
3. I’m learning to rest in my feminine.
   My whole life I’ve been in survival mode — working, providing, protecting, holding everything together. But my soul is tired. I crave softness, surrender, safety. I want to trust the masculine, but I’m also honest about the fact that I’ve never really seen it in its pure form.
   Still, I’m learning.
   One breath at a time.

To anyone healing a father wound
Please know: you are not broken.
You were never “too much.”
You are the result of a world that failed to hold you the way you deserved.

But now? Now you have the power to become the parent your inner child needed.
To re-write the story.
To rise.
And to choose — again and again — to love yourself in the ways no one else ever could.

This is how we break the cycle.
This is how we come home.

—
Written with a heart full of truth and a soul that’s been through the fire.
This is my healing. This is my power.