From ages four to sixteen, my father was largely absent. He was a ghost — who was alive, but emotionally missing. I didn’t have warm, comforting memories of him as a little girl. I had moments of confusion, fear, and a longing I didn’t even understand yet.
After my parents divorced, I rarely saw him. The few times I did, it was complicated — charged with tension, disappointment, and sometimes outright emotional distance. My mother’s family didn’t trust him, and honestly, some of their warnings were valid. But even though they disliked him, he was still my father. Their words about him, no matter how justified, affected me deeply. I loved him, but I also feared him or the versions of him they described.
And there was one night — that night — that defined so much of my relationship with him, with men, and with myself.
I only wear sleepwear that I can leave the house in if I have to — not because of fashion, but because that night left an imprint. It’s a small, daily reminder of the resilience I’ve had to cultivate from a young age. And it’s a choice I make every day: to honor my boundaries, protect myself, and assert my independence.
Because I never heard my father say, “I love you” as a little girl, I carried an unspoken hunger for validation from men. The first time a boy or a young man told me, “I love you,” I believed them completely — because I had no other reference point. I didn’t know what love should feel like, so I mistook attention, affection, and even chaos for love.
My early romantic relationships mirrored patterns I saw in my father. I was drawn to wounded men. I was addicted to the drama. I didn’t know what to truly look for in a partner — not the kind of man who would protect me, respect me, or help me grow. I had to learn by trial and error, by heartbreak, and by observing the world around me.
I was fortunate to witness examples of healthy love in other families. My uncle-in-law’s devotion to my aunt showed me what respect and care could look like. But even with those examples, I struggled with my own choices. I had to find my way on my own, often the hard way.
My father was a wounded man. He carried his own trauma, and that shaped the way he interacted with me. There were moments of genuine love — advice about life, business, and politics that I still carry with me today. But there were also moments of harshness, criticism, and emotional absence that cut deeply.
The truth is, he abandoned me emotionally first. And because of that, it’s been difficult for me to trust a man fully — even now. It’s hard to separate the memory of the father I needed from the father I had. It’s hard to love someone when you’ve never fully felt the love you longed for as a child.
Because of how I saw my father treat women, I became fiercely determined to be independent — financially, emotionally, and mentally. I learned to rely on myself in ways that were necessary but also extreme. I became emotionally independent to a degree that is not entirely healthy. I didn’t just want to survive; I wanted to thrive on my own terms, even if it meant building walls around my heart.
Even though I was very attracted to men, I did not really like men. Most of the men I knew had broken relationships or marriages. Not just my father. There were a lot of other men like my dad. He was not the only one
But here’s what I’ve learned over the years: the wounds we carry don’t have to define us forever. Healing isn’t about forgetting the past; it’s about understanding it, naming it, and deciding what it will mean in our lives going forward.
I can acknowledge the pain my father caused, the love I didn’t receive, and the trauma I endured — and still choose a path of growth, empowerment, and emotional strength. I can recognize patterns in my relationships, forgive myself for past choices, and redefine what love and trust look like for me as an adult.
I can also honor the good in my father without denying the hurt. Life is complicated. People are complicated. And love — real love — is never simple. But we get to decide how much of that complexity we carry forward, and how much we turn into lessons, wisdom, and self-respect.
Here’s what I want you to take from my story:
Lesson 1
Trauma doesn’t define your worth.- Not even an Ivy league education can heal trauma. At the root of every great comedian is some form of daddy or mommy issues he or she had to eventually convert to comedy.
Lesson 2
Emotional independence is powerful, but balance is key.
You can learn to recognize what healthy love looks like, even if you never saw it as a child.
Lesson 3
Forgiveness isn’t for them; it’s for you. It frees you from the chains of the past.
Lesson 4
“Your boundaries are sacred — honor them. If they never truly loved you, they never will. Because a wounded person doesn’t know how to love correctly — not until they heal.”
We all have nights that change us. Moments that leave us shaken. But how we rise afterward, how we reclaim our story, that is where true power lies.
In spite of everything, I can honestly say I still love my dad. I’m grateful for the gifts he left me — my ability to pivot, my perfect teeth, my entrepreneurial spirit, my drive. My passion for politics and my street smarts — I got all of that from him.
I miss our conversations about U.S. elections and life. He was the first man to break my heart, which is probably why the ones who came after could never truly shake me. I became a boss at getting over breakups. Daddy made sure I was good.
But in the final analysis, he was still too wounded to have the most important conversation with me before he died — the one about that traumatic night when my “daddy issues” began. He never apologized, and maybe he couldn’t. Because deep down, he was still too wounded to show up for me.
Over the years, I’ve learned that the real lesson wasn’t about pain — it was about discernment. To avoid men who would treat me like my daddy once did.
And 25 years ago, I found such a man. He’s not perfect — but he’s not wounded. And that makes all the difference.
Take a look at my recent podcast on this topic on our You Tube Channel:
Leave a Reply