The Face I Was Always Looking For

They say you tend to gravitate toward people who remind you of the one person who refused to love you. I heard that a long time ago. I just didn't know I was living it. For me, that person was my father. Growing up, I fantasized about who he was. I built him into something kind, gentle, present. A man who would show up and make me feel like I mattered. The reality was different. Our encounters were few — a meal here, a beach trip there, scattered moments that never added up to what I actually needed. And when he finally came around during my teenage years, instead of showing up as a father, he chose his mother's version of me over his own eyes. He took her word. He scolded me for something I didn't do. And something in me shifted that day. I didn't stop loving him. That's the part nobody tells you — you can be hurt by someone and still want them. Still need them. I moved to the States carrying that quiet ache, still hoping. And then I watched him make my son feel invisible. Make fun of us. Hold up his "perfect" life like a mirror to show us everything we weren't. He told me, in ways words sometimes don't need to be spoken, that no man would ever love me. That I wasn't worth it. And I believed him. For a long time, I believed him. I looked for him in every relationship I entered. Not consciously — I wasn't out here thinking find me a man just like daddy. But I kept finding the same energy. Hate. Animosity. Greed. Men who consumed everything I offered and had nothing to give back. And when I finally needed something in return, suddenly I was asking for too much. I numbed it. Alcohol. Cigarettes. Anything to stop feeling that emptiness. Anything to stop hearing his voice in theirs. But here's what I know now. I was never broken. I was just looking in the wrong direction. The love I was searching for was never going to come from any of them. It was always supposed to come from me. And forgiving my father — forgiving all of them — wasn't about letting them off the hook. It was about unhooking myself. From the story. From the wound. From the pattern. I forgive myself too. For not knowing better when I didn't know better. For staying too long. For shrinking. For drinking to feel nothing instead of sitting with everything. That version of me did the best she could. This version of me is done performing for people who never deserved front row seats. I choose me. Fully. Loudly. Without apology. Love and light. Asé. Asé. 🖤