Father’s Day Has Always Been Complicated

I’ve never really liked Father’s Day.

That’s probably not the kind of thing you’re supposed to admit publicly, but it’s true.

My dad was killed by a drunk driver when I was seven months old. I have no memories of him. No father-son conversations. No life lessons. No fishing trips. No moments that belong to me. Just old, faded photographs and stories shared by other people. My mom never remarried. In fact, she never even dated. Instead, she raised four kids by herself.

Every year on Father’s Day, we celebrated her.

At the time, it felt completely normal. Looking back, I have no idea how she did it. Raising one child is hard enough. Raising four kids alone after losing your husband and both your parents at 34 feels almost impossible. Yet somehow she managed it. None of us ended up on the pipe or the pole, so I guess we’ll call that a win.

As I’ve gotten older, Father’s Day has remained complicated.

Part of that is because I’ve spent most of my life wondering about my dad. Would we have gotten along? Would I have made him proud? What would he have taught me? Would I be different if he had lived? Those questions don’t really have answers, but that doesn’t stop me from asking them every now and then.

What’s strange is that I miss him. Terribly.

That probably doesn’t make much sense because I don’t actually remember him. I don’t have memories to revisit or stories that belong to the two of us. I was seven months old when he was killed. In many ways, I have nothing tangible to miss.

And yet, I do.

I miss the idea of my dad. I miss the relationship we never got to have. I miss the conversations we’ll never share and the experiences we’ll never create. I miss the version of him I’ve spent nearly fifty years building in my imagination.

It’s a peculiar kind of grief because you’re mourning both a person and a possibility. You’re grieving someone you lost while simultaneously grieving everything that never had the chance to happen.

Maybe that’s why Father’s Day has always felt a little strange to me. It asks me to miss someone I’ve never known while somehow remembering someone I never got the chance to meet.

Another part of it is that I’ve spent a surprising amount of my life trying to figure out what being a man is supposed to look like.

I’ve been fortunate to have good men in my life. Men I respect. Men I admire. Men whose examples of faith, hard work, commitment, and service have influenced me in meaningful ways. My father-in-law has been one of those men. Over the years, we’ve built a relationship rooted in mutual respect, and I genuinely admire the life he has built and the example he has set for his family.

But if I’m being honest, I’ve often felt like I was studying masculinity from the outside looking in.

Men have always intimidated me. I’ve never been particularly good at male friendships. I’ve spent much of my life feeling like everyone else received a handbook on how to be a man that somehow got lost before it reached me. Maybe that’s because I grew up in a house full of women. Maybe it’s because I never had a father in the traditional sense. Maybe it’s because I’ve always been wired a little differently than the men around me. Whatever the reason, I’ve spent a lot of years trying to sort through what parts of manhood are real, what parts are cultural expectations, and what parts God actually cares about.

Then I became a father myself.

And that’s where Father’s Day gets even messier.

The truth is, I’ve never felt particularly good at being a dad. I love my kids more than I know how to express. I would do anything for them. But love and confidence are not always the same thing.

For years, I’ve struggled with depression, anxiety, and simply trying to survive my own mind. There were seasons where I was present and engaged and the father I wanted to be. There were other seasons where I wasn’t. Parenting doesn’t come with a rewind button. The years keep moving whether you’re ready or not. The little missed opportunities add up. The misunderstandings add up. The hurts add up.

And one day you wake up and realize your kids aren’t little anymore. They’re their own people.

As I write this, Father’s Day doesn’t feel like the picture-perfect holiday portrayed in commercials. My relationship with my kids is complicated. There is love there, but there is also distance. There are years of experiences, misunderstandings, hurt feelings, and growing pains that don’t magically disappear because Hallmark says it’s Father’s Day.

Sometimes the holiday feels awkward more than celebratory. Sometimes it feels like an annual reminder of all the things I wish I had done differently.

I suspect I’m not alone in that.

I think there are a lot of people carrying complicated feelings today. Some are grieving fathers they’ve lost. Some are grieving fathers they never had. Some are estranged from their children. Some desperately want to become parents and can’t. Some are carrying regrets. Some are carrying wounds. Some are carrying both.

Maybe that’s why Father’s Day has never really been my favorite holiday.

It asks me to think about a father I never knew. It reminds me of how much of my life has been spent trying to understand what kind of man I want to be. And it forces me to look honestly at the father I’m still trying to become.

It’s a hard place to stand.

The good news is that I’ve finally reached a point in my life where I don’t think perfection is the goal. Maybe fatherhood isn’t about getting everything right. Maybe it’s about continuing to show up. Maybe it’s about trying again. Maybe it’s about apologizing when necessary, loving people where they are, and refusing to quit on the relationships that matter most.

And maybe that’s enough.

This Father’s Day, I’m grateful for my mom, who somehow carried the responsibilities of two parents when one would have been hard enough. I’m grateful for the good men who have influenced my life, whether they knew it or not. I’m grateful for my wife, who made me a father and who has spent years helping me become a better one. And I’m grateful for three incredible kids who have taught me far more than I have ever taught them.

I’m still learning. I’m still growing. I’m still trying to figure it out. But maybe that’s what being a father actually is.

Happy Father’s Day to the dads. Happy Father’s Day to the moms doing double duty. Happy Father’s Day to the mentors, coaches, uncles, grandfathers, and father figures who stepped in when they didn’t have to. And happy Father’s Day to everyone carrying a little grief alongside their gratitude today.

I have a feeling there are more of us than we realize. Unfortunately, Hallmark doesn’t seem to make a card for complicated grief, unresolved questions, parental regrets, and gratitude all rolled into one.