From Golden Child to Ghost: My Father Wound and the Echo It’s Left

For the past few weeks, I’ve felt a quiet tug—one that keeps drawing me toward my father. We haven’t really spoken in 4 or 5 years. There wasn’t one explosive fight that ended everything, but rather a slow accumulation of moments where I didn’t feel chosen. A series of small hurts that added up until I finally had enough. I reached my edge after realizing I was no longer willing to keep showing up for someone who didn’t seem to show up for me.

What really cracked things open again recently was a breakup—one I didn’t fully see coming, but also wasn’t entirely surprised by. As I found myself negotiating, bending, and trying to hold onto the relationship, I started to see a deeper pattern unfolding: I was sacrificing parts of myself to stay connected. I wasn’t trying to build a bridge between two people—I was trying not to be left behind.

And when it ended, without any clean or concrete reason, just a vague “we’re no longer aligned,” I felt that old, familiar sting rise up in my chest—the feeling of being disposable. Of being loved when useful, then quietly let go when no longer needed.

That’s when the father wound came roaring back. Not as a whisper this time, but a full-on storm. I realized I haven’t actually processed what our estrangement has meant to me. I’ve suppressed it. Covered it with logic, distraction, pride, and sometimes even spiritual bypassing. But it keeps coming back—especially when love leaves.

And the truth is, I have so much love to give. So much tenderness in me. And yet, for some reason, I struggle to turn that love inward. I know I don’t need anyone else to love me in order to love myself. I get it, logically. But embodying that truth? That’s been the real work—and the real pain.

I know I need community. I know I need people who can reflect love back to me, so I can amplify it in myself. But the cycle is brutal: when I feel isolated, I feel unworthy. And when I try to be open and vulnerable, I get scared people will leave—so I retreat again. It’s a lonely loop. And I’m tired of it.

So, I wrote my dad a letter. I haven’t sent it yet, but it poured out of me like a dam breaking. It’s the letter I wish I could say face to face. It’s the truth I’ve carried for far too long.

Here it is:

⸻

Dad,

There’s a weight I’ve been carrying for years, and I’m realizing I don’t want to keep holding it alone. It’s been 4 or 5 years since we really talked, and even though I try to act like it doesn’t matter… it does. A lot.

When all I get from you is a birthday or holiday text, it hurts. It makes me feel disposable. Like a Bic lighter—useful when needed, then set aside when empty or misplaced. Not worth looking for. Not missed. And even if you don’t mean to make me feel that way, that’s how it lands. That’s the story that plays in my head. And it’s shaped me more than I’ve wanted to admit.

So many times, I’ve come back to you like a dog with its tail between its legs—just hoping for love, hoping not to get hurt again. Swallowing my pain just to feel some sense of connection. Just to not be the one who always walks away.

I also see now that I’ve carried expectations of you—ones you may not have asked for or known how to meet. I wanted you to be someone you maybe couldn’t be. But that doesn’t erase what I needed.

I’m not writing this to assign blame or judgment. I’m writing this to say that this is how it felt for me—how it still feels sometimes. We’re both wounded men, in different ways. Your dad hurt you in ways I’ll never fully know. And while you didn’t hit me, the wound you passed on was quieter: emotional absence, being unavailable, choosing work or other things over connection. You were doing what you thought was right. I get that. And I also needed something different. I needed you to show up, to listen, to tell me I’d be okay—and to show interest in me not just when I was performing or doing well, but when I was simply me.

That absence didn’t just stay between us. It shaped the way I show up in all my relationships. I’m afraid to be myself, afraid that people will leave if I am. I hold back my needs because I think they’ll scare others away. I over-own the mess, just to make sure I’m not left behind—and even then, I still feel small, still struggle to love myself.

It’s affected how I relate to my daughter, too. I can’t imagine doing to her what’s happened between us—but I still carry this fear. That I’ll push her away. That one day, I’ll hear silence from her the same way I’ve felt it from you. That terrifies me. Because I know how much this hurts, and I never want her to carry this kind of ache.

It hasn’t just affected my relationship with you or my daughter. It’s shaped every relationship I’ve had. Friendships. Romantic partners. I’m afraid to be fully myself, because I’ve learned that being myself might be what drives people away. I hold back my needs because I’m scared they’ll make people run. I take on all the responsibility when things go wrong, hoping that if I carry the weight, they won’t leave. But no matter how much I bend, I still end up feeling small, scared, and disconnected—from others, and from myself. I keep chasing love at the cost of my own self-worth. And I’m trying to change that. But it’s hard.

I don’t know what happens next. I’m not writing this because I expect a perfect reunion. I’m writing this because silence is its own kind of wound, and I need you to know I’m still here, still wrestling with all of this, and still hoping it’s not too late.

I love you, Dad

Kenton