Father’s Day for the Fatherless: A Reflection in Perfect Timing

Father’s Day comes every year, perfectly timed on the calendar—but never perfectly timed for the heart.

As a child of neglect, this holiday used to sit like a splinter beneath my skin. The images of backyard barbecues, matching ties, and homemade cards felt like a commercial for a life I never had. And yet, each year I’m drawn into a cycle of reflection—not out of guilt or pressure, but because growth demands we revisit the places where we were wounded to understand how we’ve healed.

In my past blog, Perfect Timing, I wrote about how life doesn’t always unfold according to our desires or plans, but instead offers us moments—messy, inconvenient, raw—that ultimately shape us. Father’s Day is one of those moments. It arrives not with celebration, but with clarity. Not with nostalgia, but with recognition: I am not who abandoned me. I am who I chose to become in their absence.

There’s a lyric from Sabrina Carpenter’s “Manchild” that echoes loudly for me:

“And how survive the Earth so long?

If I'm not there, it won't get done

I choose to blame your mom”

That line hits. It reminds me of how often children of neglect become emotional custodians, cleaning up the wreckage left behind by those who were supposed to build a safe place around them. We carry that weight into adulthood, sometimes mistaking caretaking for love, chaos for connection.

But here’s the truth I’ve come to own: I am allowed to grieve the father and mourn the loss of those who failed me. I am allowed to celebrate the caregivers I found elsewhere—my mother’s resilience, my chosen family’s loyalty, my own unwavering capacity to keep going.

Father’s Day now feels less like a day of mourning and more like a milestone on the map of self-awareness. It’s a moment to check in, acknowledge my progress, and remind myself that survival is not the same as healing—but both are worth honoring.

So this year, I’m not going to look away from the ache. I’ll light a candle for what I lost. I’ll plant something new for what I’ve become.

Because some of us weren’t fathered, we were forged.