What We Long for Most: A Letter to the Father Who Didn’t See Me
A few days ago, while crossing a street in Galveston on a brief out of town excursion, I saw a beautiful exotic bird on the side of the road.
It was barely alive—its wings flinching, legs trembling, trying to rise. I paused for a moment, unsure what to do. Cars were flying past me, and I was afraid one of them would hit the bird and it would splatter on me.
There was nothing I could really do.
But I saw it.
I witnessed it.
And that moment stayed with me all day.
Because lately, I’ve felt a lot like that bird. Tired. Trying. Still alive but struggling to fly. And it hit me: how often we pass by others—how often I feel passed by—when we’re hurting, trying, barely holding on. And how rare it is to feel truly seen.
Grieving What Never Was
That happened on April 12th—just one day before my father’s birthday.
I had planned a quiet weekend in Galveston to reflect. The ocean has always helped me breathe.
My father died over a year ago. We didn’t have a relationship. We hadn’t spoken in years before he passed. And while the grief isn’t straightforward, the ache is very real. Not for what we had, but for what we never did.
Not for the father he was—but the kind I needed him to be.
A Letter to My Father (April 12, 2025)
Dad,
You would be proud of me and how far I’ve come.
But I didn’t really need that.
I needed to be seen and known.
Tomorrow is your birthday. I’m not sure if this is about honoring you or trying to process what I still struggle to process every year.
I saw a nearly-dead bird on the side of the road today. It felt symbolic—of exhaustion, of being almost broken but still breathing.
I realized I needed rest. And I took it. I walked down to the beach close to sunset and watched the sun fade as I wrote this letter. Part of me did it as a release. Part of me wanted to connect with you—or with something greater.
I’m there for my boys. I show up. I try not just to admire them or be proud of them, but to see them. To know them. To let them know I think about them, and love them—not just when it’s convenient, but when it matters. It’s part of the new blueprint I’m consciously creating—one where parenting doesn’t repeat old wounds but repairs them.
Right now, my youngest is calling for me, but I needed to do this first.
The water here is beautiful—even if it’s brown.
Sometimes I wonder if you’re here with me. If you’re the homeless-looking pigeon that showed up at my door a year ago, right before everything changed. Maybe you were trying to warn me. Maybe you were trying to connect in the only way you knew how.
I hope wherever you are, you see me now.
I hope you’re looking out for me.
I’d like to think you are.
Healing from an Emotionally Unavailable Parent
This letter wasn’t about blame. It was about truth.
The truth is, I was propped up as a child—but not truly seen. I was praised, but it felt hollow. Special, yes—but only as a reflection of someone else’s needs. Not as me.
It wires you to believe love must be earned. That to be seen means to perform. That you have to be extraordinary just to be enough.
But I’m learning—still, even now—that what I needed then is what I try to offer others now: presence. Realness. Love without a mirror.
If You’re Grieving a Parent Who Wasn’t Who You Needed
If you had a parent who couldn’t see you, or who only loved the version of you that served their needs… you’re not alone.
And if you’re the one trying to break the cycle—to be the safe place for your children, or your inner child—I see you.
We don’t always get the home we needed.
But sometimes, in quiet moments…
In letters that don’t get mailed,
In birds we can’t save,
In sunsets over brown water…
We begin to build it for ourselves.