The Stories I Told to Survive
I was 11 years old, explaining to my friends at school why my dad couldn’t make it to the school function — again. A business trip, I said. He was always so busy. So early in my childhood I struggled with “daddy issues.”
That was one of many stories I invented throughout my childhood. I told people my father was a veterinarian, that he was always traveling for work, that he called me and thought about me. Later, as a teenager, I upgraded the story: my parents had divorced, and I visited him in Mexico City. He supported me from a distance. He was proud of me.
None of it was true.
My father was never in the picture; not because of distance or divorce, but because he chose not to be. He left when my mother got pregnant. I saw him once or twice in my entire childhood, and neither time felt fatherly. He was a stranger who happened to share my last name.
There is a misconception that follows children like me: How can you miss something you never had?
This is the story we tell ourselves or what others say to soften the discomfort of facing something so painful. But the truth is, I always knew fathers existed. I saw my cousins, friends, and neighbors with theirs — involved, protective, present. They played together, taught each other things, and showed up. That is what I missed. And for a long time I told myself I didn’t need it, that we were fine without him. But the truth is simpler and harder than that: I wanted a dad.
The Most Confusing Part? My Mom Spoke Highly of Him
What made it harder was hearing my mother describe him as a gentleman. A fine person, someone worthy of admiration.
Imagine being a child trying to make sense of why someone who sounds so wonderful has no interest in knowing you. There is only one conclusion a child’s mind can reach: there must be something wrong with me. I must not be worth it.
I didn’t have the language for that then. What I had were stories — carefully constructed, borrowed from friends’ fathers and movies — to fill the space where a real father should have been. I felt like an impostor for lying. I even called myself a pathological liar.
It wasn’t until my 30s, through my own therapy, that I finally understood: those lies weren’t a character flaw. They were a child’s strategy for surviving shame.
What “Daddy Issues” Actually Look Like
When most people hear the term daddy issues, they picture a certain kind of woman; insecure, clingy, desperate for male attention. Like in this article, where they described the Freud term, “Father Complex” That stereotype is not only reductive, it’s largely inaccurate.
In my years as a licensed therapist, I’ve seen the consequences of an absent father show up in people from all kinds of backgrounds, in ways that look nothing like the cliché. Here’s what my clinical experience actually showed me about growing up without a father:
- Chronic self-doubt and perfectionism — no matter how much you achieve, it never feels like enough
- Difficulty asking for or receiving help — a deep belief that you must figure everything out alone to be worthy
- Trouble accepting compliments or love — praise feels uncomfortable, even threatening
- Overachieving as a way to earn belonging — working harder, looking better, doing more, all to prove you deserve to be loved
- Attracting emotionally unavailable partners — because emotional distance feels familiar, even safe
- Pushing people away before they can leave — anticipating abandonment by creating it first
- Difficulty trusting — especially in romantic relationships, where vulnerability feels dangerous
These are not signs of weakness. They are signs of adaptation. Your nervous system learned to protect you — and it did its job.
My Own Experience: The Woman Who Had to Do It All Alone
One of the most painful and least-talked-about consequences of an absent father is this: the belief that you have to earn your worth.
That hole in your chest — the one that keeps absorbing every achievement, every compliment, every success, and never feels full — that is grief. Grief for the father who should have been there to tell you that you were enough, simply by existing.
Throughout my twenties I worked relentlessly to become the perfect version of myself. Working out, going to school, learning, achieving, impressing. Not for me, but for the imaginary audience I was always trying to convince that I deserved to be loved.
I kept ending up with emotionally unavailable men, or pushing away the ones who actually showed up. I still feel that warm, uncomfortable flush through my body every time someone compliments me — followed immediately by the urge to hide.
What I was living wasn’t daddy issues in the way the world defines them. I wasn’t a helpless girl searching for a father figure. I was a strong, capable, high-achieving woman who had no idea how to receive love — because no one had ever modeled what that looked like.
Redefining “Daddy Issues” — For Good
Pity, in my opinion, is one of the worst things you can feel toward another person. It always angered me to be seen as the poor girl whose dad abandoned her.
A woman with daddy issues is not always the fragile girl searching for someone to save her. Sometimes she is the one saving everyone else. The one who never asks for help. The one who has accomplished more than anyone expected and still feels like a fraud. The one who loves fiercely but keeps people at arm’s length. The one who is so afraid of being abandoned that she leaves first.
An absent father doesn’t just leave a gap in your childhood. He leaves a gap in how you see yourself — your worth, your lovability, your right to take up space and receive good things.
Understanding that is not about blaming. It’s about finally making sense of yourself.
Healing Is Possible — And You Don’t Have to Do It Alone
(And yes, the irony of that last sentence is not lost on me.)
The patterns that formed in childhood to protect you can be unlearned. The story that you have to earn your worth, that love is something you perform for rather than simply receive, that can be rewritten. With the right support, you can learn to let people in, accept love without bracing for it to disappear, and finally feel like enough.
Not because you achieved more. But because you always were.
If you’re in the Santa Barbara or Solvang area and recognized yourself somewhere in this post, I’d love to support you. Reach out here to schedule a free consultation. I also offer telehealth sessions throughout California.
