The Remarkable Thing That Happened When I Stopped Blaming My Dad

It can happen to you, too

I was a pretty miserable teenager into my middle adult years. It was always his fault. Everything I didn’t like about myself anyway. I blamed my promiscuity on the “lack of affection” from my dad. Also, he didn’t treat me like the princess I longed to be treated as, so I was certain that, too, contributed to my unhappiness.

For years, I assigned nuanced grudges to even his attempts at loving me. Every Sunday morning, when I came out of my room in makeup and my best dress, he would always say, “You look pretty today.”

It made me mad. I wanted to look pretty every day, even on the days I wasn’t trying. So I blamed him for making me feel “conditionally pretty.”

I wanted him to gush about my gifts and abilities, and even though I knew he was proud, I usually only got a few quiet words. I wanted him to come hang out in my room and ask me questions and probe into the deep recesses of my soul and find out who I am.

When I, unmarried, told him I was pregnant at the age of 20, he distraughtly said, “I’ve thought a lot over the course of your life, and I can’t think of one thing I would do differently.”

“Boy, really?? ’Cause I have a laundry list!”

I didn’t say it out loud.

My dad was a calm, patient, hard-working man. He was a faithful Christian, careful to read the Bible to us each night and make sure we were in church every Sunday.

We had tougher rules than my schoolmates. I had to wear longer shorts than my short-short-wearing friends; he wouldn’t let us listen to secular music on Sundays, and he would hunt us down at parties where we shouldn’t be. He wouldn’t let me go on my Senior trip to the beach because “he knew what happens there.” I told him I hated him.

With all my anger hurled at this strict Daddy of mine, he would patiently, lovingly say, “I’m sorry, but I won’t be party to your destruction.”

He was — he is — a good, wise man.

And then one day it happened. The change that began with one thought:

How much has my dad grown, improved, and parented me from how he was parented? He had come so far from his upbringing! It was a mic-drop, life-altering moment.

My dad, born just after The Great Depression to blue-collar, poor parents, never heard the words “I love you” from his dad. He hardly received affection and certainly not much empathy.

His parents never attended one of his football games and required him to find a ride to and from practice/games if he wanted to play.

They fought continually. Their lives were consumed with their hatred of one another leaving little to give their children except faces carved by angry expressions.

One such fight happened on Christmas Eve when my dad was 8. My grandfather woke to realize what day it was, and since they had no gifts for their four children, he drove to the local drugstore and bought them one. For my dad, it was a $3 after-thought watch.

My dad tells the sad story of how excited he was to save up his money for his very own puppy. A boy and his dog. It was something big when you were poor and had very little entertainment or companionship. He loved his dog.

The dog loved chickens. When my grandfather discovered the dog had killed some of the family’s chickens (read: food), he made my dad shoot it. He was 12 years old at the time and still tells the story with misty eyes.

My grandfather had fought in WWII and had PTSD, among other mental ailments. When my dad was 16, he watched men in white dragging his dad off to be locked inside a barbaric mental institution where they used shock therapy until you peed on yourself. He later watched him threaten suicide over being taken back.

My grandmother had her own set of mental challenges and was an anxious, overbearing, control-freakish kind of woman. We loved her, but that didn’t make the truth any less true.

Fighting, poverty, lack of affection — hard upbringing: that’s what my father had. Yet that seemed to forge a strength and optimism in him that propelled him to a far better life.

He took a tough leadership position at 22 and rocked it. He then started, from scratch, a long-term home for foster children, born out of the heartache he experienced on a mission trip to Guatemala.

He loved us. We never questioned that. He even told us so, often, despite the dearth of examples in his own life.

He carved time out of his busy schedule to make special memories with us. Fishing was a favorite, as well as many memorable vacations.

He followed through with my love of horses at a young age, bought me my own, then paid for lessons and allowed me to show for several years. He would help me practice and groom — a fond experience that bonded us more than I would realize at the time. It’s one of my most cherished memories.

If I make a list of things my father didn’t do, I would have a list. If I make a list of things my father did do, I would have another, bigger list. It’s which list I choose to rehearse that changes everything.

The day I started to rehearse the second list was the day my joy and peace began to return to me. Letting go of blame may be one of the most healing things a person can do.

And especially now that I am a mother and look back over the landscape of my parenting, despite my best intentions, I still have blaring faults and too many regrets. In some ways, my dad did it better. I hope my children, too, can learn to give me the grace to remember the good and minimize the bad.

There will always be someone or something to blame if we want that. And we always have the choice to embrace what’s wrong in a situation or what’s right.

That choice will make all the difference in the life you live.

Follow me to catch all my stories. I’m a Christian, wife, homeschooling mom of 11, speaker, and author. Subscribe to my newsletter to get The Mothering Secret That Changes Everything. Catch me on Facebook or visit my site.