The Ache of Father’s Day

When the Silence Says Everything

Father’s Day has always been hard for me.

But this year…

This year, it feels heavier.

There’s no big explosion.

Just a quiet ache behind the ribs that doesn’t go away.

Not anger. Not sadness.

Just grief.

Grief that lingers — for a father who’s still alive… but never really showed up.

I didn’t call him today.

I couldn’t.

And before the guilt could whisper, I reminded myself why.

This man hasn’t tried to be in my life since I left his house.

Not once.

No invitations to meet, no desire to build.

Only silence, until he needed something —

Until it was about him.

I’ve tried.

I’ve tried to be the bridge.

Tried to initiate connection.

Tried to keep the door cracked open.

But that door only swings one way. And I got tired of walking through it alone.

I used to think it was my fault.

Maybe I wasn’t good enough.

Maybe I was too distant.

Maybe if I tried harder…

But now I know:

He wasn’t ready to be the father I needed.

And I’ve been grieving that truth in silence ever since.

And then there's the other ache —

The one I rarely talk about:

The ache of wanting to be a father.

Of trying.

Of losing.

Of almosts.

Three miscarriages.

One abortion.

Multiple Plan Bs.

All of them… little sparks of hope that never made it past the flame.

It’s a strange kind of emptiness — carrying the weight of a child you never got to hold.

Sometimes I wonder if fatherhood just isn’t for me.

Other times, I wonder if I’m just not ready enough.

Financially.

Emotionally.

Spiritually.

Either way, the ache is real.

And Father’s Day reminds me — loudly — of everything I’ve never had and everything I’ve never become.

What makes it harder is this lie I keep living under:

That I’m the strong one.

The grounded one.

The one who can handle anything.

But the truth?

Most days I feel like I’m carrying a mountain while everyone assumes I’m just built for the weight.

And it’s lonely here.

It’s silent here.

And no one sees the cracks forming underneath.

So today, I’m not celebrating.

I’m surviving.

I’m letting the grief breathe.

I’m honoring the boy in me who still aches for a dad.

I’m honoring the man in me who still dreams of being one.

And I’m choosing — today — not to numb it.

Not to dismiss it.

Not to fake joy.

Because some holidays don’t call for celebration.

They call for truth.

They call for quiet strength.

They call for grieving what never was… and what still might be.

And if you feel that too —

You’re not alone.

Not today.

Not ever.

If this spoke to something you’ve carried silently, you’re not alone — and you don’t have to keep doing it all alone.

I write and coach from experience — not theory — and I’m building a space for men and women who are ready to do the deeper work of healing, rebuilding, and transforming their lives.

👉 Visit hblifecoaching.com to explore coaching options, personal tools, and to join the newsletter for future resources and reflections.

The work begins when the silence ends.

Stay tuned.