Hey everyone. This is one of those posts I never thought I’d make. But here I am. I guess there’s something cathartic about letting things out in the open, even if it’s just to the ether. It’s strange how the smallest things can unravel your tightly wound perceptions of yourself, and how they can force you to confront truths you’ve buried deep down.
So, a couple of weeks ago, I was cleaning out the garage. It’s been something I’ve avoided for years. There was always an excuse: too busy, too tired, too… scared, maybe? But that day, I had finally run out of reasons not to, and I found myself knee-deep in old boxes and forgotten memories. The garage was full of our life’s clutter — Christmas decorations, old school projects, you name it.
In one of those boxes, I found a small, dusty notebook. Its cover was faintly reminiscent, and flipping through the pages, I was struck with a wave of nostalgia. It was an old journal, one I’d kept from my teenage years. Back then, I thought I was a poet, scribbling down thoughts and feelings, so sure of their significance.
I started reading through it, expecting nothing more than adolescent angst. But buried within those pages was a letter — a letter to my future self. I had completely forgotten about it. As I opened the carefully folded piece of paper, I felt a familiar twist of anxiety form in my chest. It was like opening a time capsule, my 15-year-old self speaking directly to me.
The letter was filled with the naïve hopes and dreams you’d expect, ambitions about a life that seemed so straightforward and possible. But there was something else, something I had written but completely erased from my memory. A question, posed innocently, but with profound implications: “Do you love him because he’s your dad or because you need to?”
As I read those words, a sense of unease swept over me. Memories I had neatly filed away in some corner of my mind began to surface. I remembered the arguments — the tension at home I often pretended didn’t exist. The way my father and I would dance around each other, like strangers forced to share the same space.
For years, I had convinced myself that we were close, that he was my hero. But the truth is, I had just grown accustomed to the distance, to the unspoken expectations. The notion that love should be earned, rather than freely given, was something ingrained in me without my realizing.
That letter opened floodgates I had carefully dammed up with denial. But it also allowed me to see things clearly for the first time. I realized that I had been carrying this weight of unfulfilled expectation, always trying to be enough for someone who was supposed to love me unconditionally.
A few days after finding the journal, I called my dad. Our conversation started like any other, small talk and the usual pleasantries. But this time, I was determined to bridge the gap. “I found something interesting in the garage,” I said, my voice steady but heart racing. “A letter I wrote when I was fifteen.”
“Oh?” he replied, sounding genuinely curious.
“Yeah, it made me think about us,” I continued. “About how we never really talk about the important things.”
There was a pause, a long enough silence for me to doubt myself, but I pushed through. “I’ve always felt like I needed to prove something to you,” I admitted. “And I never really questioned why.”
What followed was the most honest conversation I had ever had with him. He confessed that he had been distant because he never had a role model to show him how to be a father. And in his silence, I had assumed rejection. We both apologized, tears in our voices, realizing that love had been buried under layers of misunderstanding.
Since then, we’ve been working on rebuilding our relationship. It’s slow, and sometimes awkward, but it’s real. I’ve learned that love isn’t always easy, but it’s worth it. I’m sharing this because maybe someone out there needs to hear it. Maybe you’ve asked yourself a similar question, one that’s quietly eating away at you. And maybe, just maybe, it’s time to seek the answer.
Thank you for reading, and remember that sometimes, the smallest things can lead you to the biggest revelations.