The Lead-Up to Father’s Day

Tomorrow is Father’s Day, and I’ve got this really heavy feeling in my chest I can’t shake.

It crept in quietly. I didn’t even realize it was there until yesterday, when Kevin and I went for a drive to look at a boat. I had this knee-jerk thought—“I’ll shoot my dad a quick text. Happy Father’s Day, love you.” Simple. Done.

But almost immediately, that hot flush of something bubbled up.

Did I get a text for Mother’s Day?
Did he show up for Bailey’s graduation?
Have they made any real effort to take responsibility for what they owe me?

Not really.

Sure, a couple of things came through recently—but only after I had to raise hell to be acknowledged. And honestly, that part stings the most.

It shouldn’t take me breaking down or lashing out to be treated with basic respect. It shouldn’t take pressure for people to do what’s right.

The Truth Behind the Rage

I bounce between anger and sadness like a pendulum that doesn’t stop swinging. For years—years—my mom was the villain. Her issues were visible. Loud. Her addictions—pick one—were easy to blame.

And my dad? He rode that clean, quiet wave like a pro.

Until he couldn’t anymore.

Until his truth started slipping through the cracks.

That’s where my anger lives. In the deflection. The manipulation. The way he benefited from her chaos while hiding his own.

And yet… I still feel conflicted. He is, in many ways, a product of his raising. Small town. Small minds. A mama obsessed with appearances. He never really stood a chance.

But also—he did. We all do.

He’s known better for a long-ass time. He just keeps choosing not to.
Because let’s be real—“When you know better, you do better.”

The False Safety Net

What hurts the most is that he was supposed to be the safe one. The steady one. The parent I could count on.

And for a while, I convinced myself that was enough.

“Well, at least he didn’t do drugs around my kids. I guess that makes everything else forgivable.”

And it was true.
Until it wasn’t.

He remarried a few years after the divorce. Landed in a family that looked a lot like his—simple, Southern, “good people.” Salt of the earth, as they say.

And maybe that gave him a kind of cover. A second act. A clean slate.

I was twenty with a new baby when I first met them. My sister was seventeen—also a new mom. We were raw. Stained. We carried years of trauma like badges and bruises. I’m sure they clutched their pearls the second we walked in.

And my dad? He was just looking for a soft place to land. Showed up at his new wife’s house with a Walmart bag and a truck. That’s all he had. Me—the child—had to put a roof over his head more than once. Let that sink in. Another chapter, another layer, for another time.

The safety I thought he offered wasn’t real. It was conditional. Fleeting. Shaky at best.

And now I know—true safety isn’t found in appearances. It’s in consistency. In accountability. In truth-telling, even when it’s hard.

He just couldn’t give me that.

But I’ve given it to myself.

And that changes everything.

The Silent Sabotage

My stepmom didn’t know what to do with us. We were wild and broken and angry. And to be fair, she tried. But we were too much. Our mom still had her claws in us, taking jabs from a distance.

It was all so toxic. So performative.

But eventually, things started to settle. Somehow, slowly, we figured out how to blend the families. My sister and I were starting our own families, and for a while—we made it work. We went on family vacations. They built a beautiful camp on the lake and we spent long weekends there, all together, laughing, drinking (because drinking was always part of the deal), pretending it was all good.

And then… things started to unravel.

Not just one thing—multiple things. Quiet things. Things that were felt more than spoken. Things that shook the core of who we thought we were as a family.

But here’s the truth—I won’t go into the details. Not because they weren’t significant, but because they aren’t mine to tell. I’m not here to throw shade or expose anyone. I’m here to share my truth. My story.

And the story is: while it looked like we healed, we didn’t. Not really. Because surprise, surprise—we still weren’t talking about the real shit.

Nobody wanted to have the hard conversations. Not sober, anyway. That’s just how it goes in my dysfunctional family. We only speak the truth when the bottle is half-empty and the masks have slipped.

Insert heavy eye roll here.

But that’s not how I continue to raise my kids. Because I was doing it too—at first. I was modeling that same silence, that same sweep-it-under-the-rug way of living. Until a hard moment, a tough situation, snapped me back to reality and showed me the error of my ways. Now, we talk. We face things head-on. We deal with the hard stuff together. It’s not perfect, but it’s real. And it’s ours.

I’m writing a different story.

This is how I hold myself accountable.

And through it all, no one talked about a damn thing. Not unless alcohol was involved. Not unless we were half-unconscious from pain or rage or exhaustion.

Professionals at sweeping shit under the rug.
Experts at pretending.
FAKE AS HELL.

It makes me nauseous to think about how much I accepted just to feel loved.

The Breaking Point

You know when I knew it was time to draw the line?

When the first thought in the morning and the last thought before sleep was,
“How could they do this to me?”

It was wrecking me.
Stirring shit in my head.
Stealing joy from my kids.
Wearing down my marriage.

So I set the boundary.
Firm. Unmoving. Sacred.

Because that’s how I heal.
That’s how I protect the life I’ve worked my ass off to build.

The Real Reason I’m Writing This

I’m not sharing this to air out old wounds.

I’m writing this because tomorrow, I will celebrate the man who did show up. The one who apologizes when he’s wrong. The one who loves our kids so fiercely it sometimes knocks the wind out of me.

My husband.
My partner.
The father I dreamed of for my children.

I hope he knows he’s everything.
The soft place. The steady arms. The real-deal protector.

We built something incredible together—this life, this family, this safe little sanctuary of love and truth.

And I’ll spend Father’s Day celebrating that.

This Is How I Heal

I’ll be honest—writing this stirred something in me.

That old voice creeped in, whispering:

“You’re really gonna piss them off with this one.”
“They’re gonna shit a brick when they read this.”
“Why are you airing this out?”

And then another voice answered, loud and clear:

“Because this is my truth.”

Because if they wanted me to speak better about them, maybe they should’ve treated me better.

This is how I heal.
This is how I hold myself accountable.
This is how I move through the hurt and come out clean.

I know it will help someone else do the same.
I don’t know how I know that. I just do.

All I know is this:
I’m done being the good girl.
The quiet one.
The one who doesn’t rock the boat.

I’m not here to make anyone comfortable in their dysfunction.

This isn’t their story.

This is mine.

And I’m finally ready to tell it.

Let’s Grow Together

If this resonated with you—if you’ve wrestled with what it means to set hard boundaries, to tell the truth even when it stings—know this:

You’re not alone.

This space is for those like us. Those who are writing new stories, planting new roots, and learning to protect their peace without apology.

I’d love to hear your story, too. Drop a comment below or join me over on the Root Sanctuary newsletter.

Let’s grow something real—together. 🌿