By Alex Wright
Growing up as a young boy of divorced parents is a storm of love, loss, fear, and loneliness. It’s a constant struggle to balance family relationships with the pull of social ones. Do I visit dad on the weekend or spend it with friends? Do I call him back or hope we remember tomorrow? In this tug-of-war, our hearts can become frayed, both sides clinging onto what’s left of the love and trust we have for one another.
For years, I believed my dad didn’t love me. Our relationship felt distant, like a lighthouse whose bulb had burned out. It stood there, weathering the storms of life, but no longer served its purpose. It stopped guiding us safely back to one another. And so, I became like the darkened lighthouse, standing alone and untethered, unsure how to reconnect.
As this self-titled darkened lighthouse, I craved to be seen and to shine again, not with light, but with love, care, and emotional nourishment. What I got instead were text messages, which were a poor substitute for genuine connection. And no amount of text messages could fill the void of just wanting my dad to show up for me and to hug me.
Eventually any trust that I had in feeling as though my dad loved me vanished. I drowned it in alcohol, washed it away with tears, and ran myself ragged unable to get the thoughts of sadness out of my head. One night, consumed by anger, I hit rock bottom. I toyed with the idea of hurting myself, or at least finding some way to transfer the pain, a desperate cry for relief, or for someone to notice. But fear held me back: fear of hurting my family, fear of the irreversible.
Years passed going through the same cycle of getting too drunk and emotions spilling over into rage fuelled crying, until one day, an epiphany struck me: You are enough. Your worth is yours to define. You can take control. For the first time, I felt a glimmer of hope. I decided to confront my dad, giving him two choices: to stay disconnected or to meet and rebuild our relationship. I didn’t want love to keep distorting into something resembling hate.
To my relief, love hadn’t left, it was just buried beneath years of neglect. I also realised my dad was a lighthouse too, his light extinguished by his own storms and doubts. When we finally talked, it was the most honest conversation we’d had in years. Seven hours of raw truth shattered the walls we’d built up around us.
We chose to start again, to prioritise real connection. We committed to talking, meeting, and being present as father and son. Love, though scarred, endured. I learned that time may distance us, but it doesn’t erase the feelings or moments that truly matter. We both realised it’s never too late to relight the beacons that guide us home.
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