Forgiving My Father

Tawny Estrella
Apr 30
3 min read

Updated: May 1

I never thought I would forgive my father.

I felt that I already had, to the extent that I was capable.

Forgive, but never forget.

Complete forgiveness felt like endorsement, complicity. Not an option for me.

I've held onto these memories like armor. I felt that they shielded me in some way from experiencing the same thing again.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me...

In truth? They made me bitter and resentful. Hypervigilant, constantly looking over my shoulder for the same mistreatment, ready for a fight. And yet - still caught in a cycle of desperately trying to prove myself to others.

But how could I let it go? His behavior was harmful, insidious, deeply damaging.

Too dangerous to let go.

Or... is it too dangerous not to?

I have carried, carried, carried this weight for years.

Protected myself. Held up my hands in anticipation of the next blow.

Unable to exhale fully, choked-down anger caught in my throat.

It struck me recently - what is this doing for me now?

Do I want to keep carrying this pain? This rage?

This all-consuming holy fire reemerged recently after I gave birth to my first child. Sweet Adeline.

Oh yes, the anger is justified. The embodiment of my inner protector, made tangible and brought to life.

And yet I know, I don't need to hold it close to my chest anymore. The lesson has been internalized.

The pain has worked its way all the way through me. I am forever altered by its presence.

All these years later, remembering the bitter sting... I wouldn't change it now.

It is safe to let go.

The cycle is already broken.

In fact, in continuing to hold this pain, am I not holding onto the cycle in some way? Keeping a piece of it alive, breathing life into it when it was ready to leave a long time ago? (I wasn't ready yet...)

I don't fully know the answer to this. But I know one thing.

It is time to let it rest.

I am done carrying the pain, anger, resentment, spite that was thrust on me by another. That I felt as a defense, a protection of self, as a means of survival to get through what I needed to at the time.

I'm not in survival mode anymore.

I wrote something recently that has stayed with me.

Speaking of my Dad, I said,

"He lives in a personal hell of his own creation, harmful to everyone around him because he is so deeply unhappy."

I read my own words and was struck by them deeply.

I have been standing with one foot in that hell to remind me what it is like to burn.

It's okay to move forward. It's okay to let the burns heal.

Is it... could it be... finally safe enough to forget what that feels like?

I do not need to feel the wrath of unbroken heat on my skin to remember what came before.

I do not need to hold my breath underwater to recall when I lived with no air.

I do not need to punish him (myself) for one moment longer.

What's done is done.