The Father I Never Had, and the One Who Found Me

I used to carry the sentence like a fact:

"I grew up without a dad."

As if saying it plainly would strip it of its sting.
As if minimizing the pain would somehow make me stronger.

But it wasn’t just a sentence.
It was a shadow that followed me—into classrooms, birthdays, relationships, and church pews.

I was five when he walked out.
I don’t remember his voice anymore. Just the silence that came after.

At school, I’d feel a tightness in my chest every time there was a “Father-Daughter Day.” I’d either skip it or paste on a smile, holding back tears as I watched my classmates light up around their dads. I'd sit there pretending I didn’t notice mine wasn't there.

At home, my mom did everything. She was strong, but I still saw her breaking sometimes—when she thought we were asleep. I learned early not to ask for too much. I learned how to tuck my feelings in deep pockets.

As I grew up, I got used to being "fine."

I threw myself into school. Straight A’s. Class leadership. I became the girl who always had it together. I was praised for my maturity, but nobody knew that my achievements were my way of shouting:

“Am I enough now?”

Because deep down, I believed the lie: If my dad could leave me, I must be forgettable.

In college, the loneliness sharpened. I started craving affection—not just the romantic kind, but the kind that makes you feel anchored. I got into a relationship that was, in hindsight, a patch for a bleeding heart. He was charming, distant, and at times dismissive. And that felt familiar. I confused inconsistency for love because that’s all I knew.

When he cheated, I didn’t get angry—I got small. I blamed myself. I cried in the shower so no one would hear me. I stopped eating properly. I smiled at parties but cried myself to sleep most nights. I felt disposable.

I remember whispering to God one midnight, “Why do I feel like I’m never enough to be chosen?”

But somehow, in the stillness, there came a different whisper back—not an answer, but an invitation.
Not a fix, but a beginning.

A friend invited me to church. I didn’t expect anything. But that Sunday, the pastor spoke on how God is a Father to the fatherless. And something in me broke—open, not apart.

I cried the entire service.
Not because I understood everything.
But because it was the first time in a long time that I didn’t feel alone.

Soon, I joined a coaching group. I was hesitant at first, scared that my “strong girl” image would crumble. But I met people who weren’t afraid to be honest. They spoke about their wounds without shame—and I began to find healing in that space.

I started journaling again. I started praying again.
And little by little, I began to believe that my worth was not tied to someone who left, but to a God who never did.

The verse that caught me:

Psalm 68:5 (NIV)
“A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in his holy dwelling.”

This verse isn’t just comforting—it redefined who I am.
I'm not fatherless.
I'm Father-filled by a love that stays, fights, heals, and holds.

If you’ve grown up without a dad, or with a dad who was physically present but emotionally absent, I just want to say: I see you. I was you.

The void is real. The ache runs deep. But it doesn’t have to be your ending.

You can still grow—wild, soft, strong.
You can still be loved deeply, not for what you do, but for who you are.
You can still bloom—even if your roots are tangled in pain.

God is not just near. He’s nurturing you—even now.

Healing doesn’t erase the past.
But it transforms how the story ends. 🌱