All Dads Don’t Fit into One Perfect Box: My Dad, The Dark Side, and the Gift of Forgiveness

My father became a dad when he was just twenty years old. My mother was nineteen.

Now that I am the same age my father was when he left this world, I find myself looking back through a different lens. I see things I couldn't see as a child. I see strengths. I see wounds. I see mistakes. Most importantly, I see humanity.

My dad had a lot of anger in him when I was young. But he also had a remarkable ability to nurture curiosity, imagination, and creativity.

I loved aviation as a child. Amelia Earhart was my hero. My very first book report was about her, and my dad helped me write it. He taught me about the history of flight. He took our family on educational adventures whenever we could afford them, places like Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, where the Wright brothers first flew, and the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum in D.C.

Math was difficult for me. REALLY difficult.

My dad spent countless hours at the dining room table drilling flash cards with me. Later, he tried to help me understand algebra. He introduced me to Carl Sagan, science fiction, and Star Trek. Looking back, I think he was trying to show me that math and science weren't just subjects in school, they were ways to understand the universe.

It only took me about thirty-five years or so to appreciate what he was trying to teach me.

He encouraged my love of art. I can still picture him sitting beside me while I sketched, offering suggestions and telling me I had talent.

Then there was Star Wars.

In 1977, after taking my brother and me to see it, my father would dress entirely in black like Darth Vader. He bought us toy lightsabers. He would put on the soundtrack and battle us through the living room while encouraging us to use our imaginations.

He loved music.

His vinyl collection spanned decades and genres. I listened to everything from Sesame Street albums to the Beach Boys, James Bond soundtracks, and eventually the soaring music of John Williams' Star Wars scores. Some of my earliest memories are lying on the bathroom floor listening to his eight-track tapes. Now lying on the floor on a blanket and listening to music is a coping tool for me, go figure!

He took me to my first rock concert—Heart—in 1980.

One day, when I was eleven or twelve, he burst into my bedroom while I was listening to Heart. Without saying much, he walked over and turned the stereo volume all the way up.

"Heart must be listened to loudly," he declared.

That was my dad.

In many ways, we understood each other.

But there was another side...

The Dark Side

My father used a belt on my brother and me. He yelled. He cursed using words children should never hear directed at them. He threw things when he was angry. Once, he smashed my favorite Christmas gift, a radio, cassette player, and recorder.

Remember the 8-track player in the bathroom? He spent A LOT of time there due to what I now believe was undiagnosed IBS. However, my brother and I had legit GREAT fear of knocking on the door to use the bathroom, as we only had one in the house. We knew we were going to get yelled at for interrupting him. 

He loved holidays, especially Thanksgiving and Christmas. Yet those celebrations often ended with him becoming angry, withdrawing, or isolating himself from everyone around him.

He made promises he couldn't keep.

He dreamed big dreams but often struggled to follow through. He had difficulty keeping jobs. Sometimes he would spend days in bed.

My siblings and I all experienced trauma.

Not the same trauma.

Not to the same degree.

But trauma nonetheless.

As a child, I knew something was wrong. I just didn't know what.

Years later, after my maternal grandmother came to live with me, I learned something that changed how I understood my father. She told me about the abuse he endured as a child.

And yet, I also believe healing can spill forward in the same way.

Suddenly, pieces of the puzzle fit together.

His anger.

His depression.

His struggles.

His inability to regulate emotions.

The deep sadness that seemed to follow him throughout his life.

Learning about his childhood did not excuse the harm he caused.

But it helped me understand it.

And understanding is often where healing begins.

My father was not diagnosed with a significant mental health condition until he was fifty-five years old, just two years before he died. By then, many of the chapters of our family story had already been written.

Sometimes I allow myself to wonder about the road not taken. What if that diagnosis had come when he was twenty-five instead of fifty-five? What if there had been treatment, counseling, medication, support, and understanding? What if someone had seen not only his behavior, but the pain driving it?

I don't ask these questions to rewrite history. I ask them because they remind me how important mental health care is, not just for the person who is suffering, but for every life connected to theirs. The truth is, untreated pain rarely stays contained. It spills into families, marriages, and generations.

The final years of my father's life were tragic. Those are stories for another day.

But a few months before he died, he spent one last Thanksgiving with my sister and me.

During that visit, he did something I never expected.

He asked for forgiveness.

I looked at him and told him he was forgiven.

For that moment, I am profoundly grateful.

Forgiveness is not about pretending something never happened.

It is not about minimizing pain.

It is not about granting someone permission to hurt you again.

Forgiveness is about refusing to carry the weight forever.

It is about setting down a burden that has become too heavy.

It is about freeing yourself.

What I have learned through my own counseling and healing work is that trauma does not simply disappear because we grow up. It follows us into adulthood. Sometimes it shapes our parenting. Sometimes it shapes our relationships. Sometimes it shows up in fears, reactions, and habits we don't fully understand.

I can see now that some of my father's wounds became my wounds.

And some of my wounds affected my own children.

Recognizing that truth is painful.

But it is also where growth begins.

My father eventually became "Poppy" to my older children.

The man they knew was different from the father I knew.

My children spent countless hours with him. They loved him deeply. My son even built homemade lightsabers with him out of PVC pipe and spray paint, recreating the same Star Wars battles I had enjoyed decades earlier.

Those memories belong to them.

Those relationships are sacred.

I do not tell my children stories about the trauma my siblings and I experienced.

Not because it didn't happen.

Not because it isn't real.

But because their relationship with their grandfather belongs to them.

Just as my relationship with my father belongs to me.

And my siblings' relationships with him belong to them.

Healing is not about deciding who was right or wrong.

Healing is about telling the truth.

All of it.

The beautiful parts.

The painful parts.

The complicated parts.

Perhaps the greatest gift adulthood gives us is the ability to hold two truths at once:

My father hurt me.

And my father loved me.

Both can be true.

And somehow, accepting both truths has brought me more peace than choosing only one.

If your parent is still living, perhaps there is a conversation waiting to happen.

If they are gone, perhaps there is still healing waiting for you.

Not because they deserve it.

But because you do.

____________

Art Therapy & SEL Reflection Activity

"The Letter I Never Sent"

Supplies:

• Paper or journal
• Art materials (markers, colored pencils, watercolor, collage materials)
• A quiet space

Step 1: Create a Symbol

Before writing, create a simple image that represents your relationship with your father.

Examples:

• A bridge
• A tree
• A lighthouse
• A storm cloud and sunshine
• A road with twists and turns
• A favorite shared memory

Don't overthink it. Let the image emerge naturally.

Step 2: Write the Letter

Begin with:

"Dear Dad..."

Then complete the following prompts:

• What I loved...
• What hurt...
• What I wish you had known...
• What I needed from you...
• What I understand now...
• What I still carry...
• What I am ready to release...
• What I want you to know today...

If your father has passed away, write as though he can still hear your words.

If your father is living, remember this letter is for your healing. You do not have to send it.

Step 3: Add Color

After writing, return to your artwork.

Ask yourself:

• What color represents the pain?
• What color represents love?
• What color represents forgiveness?
• What color represents freedom?

Add those colors to your image wherever they feel right.

Step 4: Closing Reflection

Place your hand over your heart and read this aloud:

"I can honor my story without being trapped by it. I can acknowledge what hurt me and still recognize what was good. I release what no longer serves me. I carry forward the lessons, the love, and the wisdom I choose to keep."

Closing Thought

Not every parent will ask for forgiveness. Mine did.

Not every child will be ready to give it. That's okay too.

Forgiveness is not a destination with a deadline.

It is a personal journey of making peace with your own story.

And sometimes healing begins the moment we stop asking whether our parent was good or bad, and start seeing them as they truly were...imperfect human beings carrying wounds we may never fully understand.

May you find the courage to tell the truth about your story, the compassion to honor your pain, and the freedom to release what no longer belongs to you. ❤️

XOXO,

Whimsy Jenny