Father’s Day: The Weight of Guilt

Welcome to Sacred Musings, a space where I share reflections from the heart on love, life, caregiving, and the lessons that shape us into who we are. My hope is that these words bring comfort, perspective, and inspiration to anyone walking their own path of healing and growth.

Father’s Day arrived this year carrying something unexpected: guilt. Not because I had forgotten my father. Not because we were estranged. Not because we were fighting. Quite the opposite. My father and I have a cordial relationship. We can talk. We can laugh. We can sit in the same room without conflict. Yet when Father’s Day arrived and I felt no desire to call him, I found myself wrestling with guilt. The feeling surprised me. After all, when I look honestly at my childhood, my father was largely absent from the responsibilities of fatherhood. He didn’t help my mother raise me. He didn’t show up for holidays. He didn’t bring Christmas gifts. He didn’t contribute to tuition. When he learned about abuse that had occurred, he did not intervene. When my mother considered pursuing child support, he threatened to report her to the authorities rather than support his child. These are not small omissions. And yet there I was, feeling guilty for not picking up the phone.

Why?

The answer, I think, has less to do with guilt and more to do with conditioning. Children are born dependent. We are wired to seek love, approval, and protection from our parents. That wiring doesn’t disappear simply because our parents fail us. The child continues to reach for connection long after the evidence suggests it may never arrive. Many of us grow up believing that love must be earned. If we are good enough, grateful enough, forgiving enough, accommodating enough, perhaps we will finally receive what we needed all along. As adults, this often shows up in surprising ways. Someone does a small favor, and we feel compelled to repay them with something extravagant. Someone offers a little kindness, and we feel indebted. A holiday arrives, and we feel obligated to honor people who never fulfilled the roles they are being celebrated for. The debt never seems to be paid. Because the debt was never real. Recently, I found myself driving through Oakland for work. One of my clients lived around the corner from my father’s apartment. Since I was nearby, I called him. He answered. We chatted. I told him where I was. What happened next was what struck me. Nothing. He didn’t say, “Come upstairs.” He didn’t ask how long I’d be in the area. He didn’t invite me over. He didn’t suggest we spend a few minutes together. He simply continued watching his movie. At first glance, this seems insignificant. No argument occurred. No rejection occurred. No harsh words were exchanged. But sometimes the most revealing moments are not dramatic. Sometimes the absence of a response tells the story. If your child is standing around the corner from your home and you genuinely desire their company, most people would make an effort to see them. What I experienced was not hostility. It was indifference. And indifference can be harder to grieve than rejection because it leaves room for doubt. Maybe I’m being too sensitive. Maybe I’m asking for too much. Maybe I misunderstood. But there comes a point when a lifetime of evidence accumulates. A single moment may not tell the whole story, but consistency does. Consistency is information. That phone call did not teach me anything new. It simply confirmed what I already knew. One of the most difficult lessons of adulthood is realizing that we sometimes spend years feeling guilty for not giving enough to people who never felt guilty for not giving enough to us. That realization is painful.

It is also liberating.

Because once we see it, we can begin asking different questions.

Not: “Am I a bad daughter if I don’t call?”

But: “What do I genuinely want to do?”

If I call, is it because I want connection? Or is it because I am trying to earn something that was never offered? The answers matter. As I continue healing, I have begun paying attention to a particular feeling in my body. It is the feeling of being pressured to give when I don’t truly want to. The feeling of overriding myself to meet someone else’s expectations. I’ve learned not to ignore that feeling anymore. Every time I abandon myself to make someone else comfortable, I leave a piece of myself behind. This Father’s Day, I am choosing something different. I am choosing honesty. I am choosing to see my father as he is, rather than as I wish he had been. I am choosing to acknowledge the little girl who wanted more, while honoring the woman who now knows the truth. And perhaps that is what healing looks like. Not bitterness, revenge, or even forgiveness.

Just clarity.

And maybe, after enough years of carrying everyone else’s expectations, clarity is gift enough.

By Kimberly!