First of all, I hope that everyone who has a father, is a father, or is married to a father had the opportunity to celebrate Father’s Day in a meaningful way.
For a long time, Father’s Day has been a complicated and tender subject for me. My dad was never really involved in my life. I know who he is, but I know very little about him, and I could probably count on both hands the number of conversations we’ve had in my 38 years. Growing up, I redirected my energy toward celebrating my maternal grandfather, who stood in for some of what I needed from a dad. When he passed away in 2015, Father’s Day started to feel hollow and meaningless.
I remember the first Father’s Day my husband and I celebrated—we were just six weeks pregnant with our first son. I was so grateful to be married to a man who was present, loving, and fully committed to being a father. For the five years that followed, I poured my attention into him and our growing family, in many ways using my role as a wife and mother to distract myself from the deeper ache inside.
This year was different. This year, for the first time, I didn’t push the sadness aside. And I think it’s because I finally feel strong enough to face it without the fear of being swallowed by it.
I’ve worked in the field of therapy for a decade and have been in therapy myself just as long. I’ve sat with countless clients in the grief of father wounds—grieving what they never had or what they lost too soon—while trying to quietly ignore my own. I always knew, on some level, that my father’s absence shaped me, but I didn’t let myself look too closely.
I remember, back in my emo days (yes, I dyed my hair black and listened to Evanescence), I came across a line of poetry that resonated deeply with my experience:
“Your absence runs through me like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with its color.”
I have always known my father’s distance affected me, but I never realized just how pervasive the effects were.
After my emo phase, I shifted into stoicism, pretending sadness didn’t touch me, pushing forward no matter what. Practicality and productivity became my armor. They were values I saw in my grandfather and glimpsed in the man my father seemed to be from afar.
Without speaking ill of her—because I view her with immense compassion—my mother has struggled with significant mental health challenges, largely rooted in her own trauma. She was often impulsive, emotionally volatile, and unable to offer consistent care. My child-brain put two and two together and drew this painful conclusion: My dad left because she was irresponsible—and so I refused to be like her, hoping maybe he would come back for me.
So I made a silent vow. I would never be impractical. Never be impulsive. Never be irresponsible or inefficient. I’d be the opposite of chaos. I’d be order and reliability and hard work. I’d be what I imagined he might have stayed for.
That vow became a prison. I ignored my limits and denied my needs. I worked through illness. I worked two jobs through undergrad and enrolled in 18 credits a semester. When I graduated to pitiful job prospects in 2009, I found a way forward, cobbling together six jobs to pay my own way because I was going to be responsible for myself at the very least. When I pivoted to study psychology, I layered side gigs on top of grad school. My professors warned me about burnout. I ignored them. In grad school, we were encouraged to develop healthy self-care, to shield against burnout. My attempts at developing hobbies or “self-care” routines were shallow—I never really believed I deserved rest or joy. I publicly underestimated myself so I could always exceed expectations and maintain an image of reliability. I worked through the ends of my pregnancies and returned to work within six weeks. I worked through two miscarriages, pretending I was fine. Life became work.
Then, just a few days ago, my six-year-old son asked me, “Mom, when are you going to stop working forever?”
I half-laughed and replied, “I’ll probably always work.”
He looked at me and said, “You’re not going to work in heaven.”
His innocent comment stopped me cold. First because it was so sweet and unexpected—and second, because he was right.
As I let myself sit with it this year, a painful truth emerged: I have been working so hard—my whole life, really—for my father’s acknowledgment. I have pushed myself to be efficient, productive, and responsible—not just because those traits are culturally praised, but because I thought if I could be enough of those things, maybe I could prove that I was good enough for him.
The truth is, my father wasn’t in my life. But the one thing he did provide was financial stability. And in contrast to my mom’s chaos, I saw that stability as the only “right way” forward. I clung to it. I became it.
But I’m slowly learning that I don’t have to keep proving myself to a man who was never watching. I don’t have to earn love or worth through exhaustion. I don’t have to be stitched in the color of absence. There’s a deeper truth that I’m holding onto now—one that’s taken me years to grow into: Only God can provide the kind of affirmation my soul truly needs.
I spend my days helping others find balance, prioritize themselves, pursue passions, and release perfectionism. And yet here I was, failing to take my own advice. His words made me ask myself: Why am I still sacrificing playtime with my son to check off tasks? Why do I still equate love, worth, and identity with achievement?
In the heart of every child lies a deep yearning to be seen, known, and affirmed—especially by the father. A father’s affirmation is not merely a kind gesture; it is a vital act of love that speaks to the identity and worth of the child. It is through the father’s gaze, words, and presence that a child often first experiences the reality of being a gift. This truth is profoundly echoed in the Theology of the Body, where John Paul II reveals that our very being is a gift meant to be received and given in love. To end with a reflection from Conrad Baars that even more deeply illuminates this truth, I share these words from Born Only Once:
The father, secure in his own identity, becomes that “other” who affirms without condition, enabling the child to receive and embrace their own goodness. This is the essence of self-gift: when a father, grounded in his own belovedness, imparts identity to his child through love. In a world aching for authentic love and affirmation, the role of the father stands as both essential and irreplaceable in calling forth the gift of the child into the fullness of life.
Watching my husband become a girl-dad, after our three boys, has helped me approach some of these wounds that I had been avoiding for so long and I am so grateful to finally put down all the worn out defenses, accept the reality of my father’s absence, acknowledge how it is affected me, and receive the affirmation I was missing from God, my heavenly Father.
I’ve spent decades trying to earn love that was never freely given. I’ve sought identity in hard work, praise, and achievement. But Scripture tells us that we are already fully known and deeply loved—not because of what we do, but because of who He is. Psalm 139 reminds me that God knit me together, that He searches me and knows me, and I want to live my life stitched with his thread.
This Father’s Day, I let myself grieve. I acknowledged the part of me that still wishes for my earthly father’s love and recognition. I let myself cry. And for the first time, I didn’t feel like I would disappear inside the sadness. I felt anchored—not by productivity, but by truth. I found comfort in knowing that the longing itself points me toward something greater, a recognition of how much I need God the Father’s love and acknowledgement. I can begin to understand why he spoke public words of affirmation to His son and start to embrace what it means to be His daughter and become who He meant for me to be.
We all need to be affirmed and acknowledged. I hope you, wherever you are in life, can come to know the depth of HIs love for you and no longer look to imperfect people to give you that foundation of unconditional love. For further reflection on the gift of fatherhood and the impact of father wounds see the recommended reading list below.
- Born Only Once – Conrad Baars
- Faith of the Fatherless – Paul Vitz
- Because of Our Fathers: Twenty-Three Catholics Tell How Their Fathers Led Them to Christ – Tyler Rowley
- Radiation of Fatherhood – John Paul II