Reflection: Grieving a Father Who Is Still Alive

There is a kind of grief that doesn’t stay in the past. It breathes. It watches. It waits.

I am not writing this as someone who is no longer afraid. I am writing this as someone who still feels fear in her body — but no longer lets it silence her.

I grieve the father I had before everything changed — the one who took me to the park, read books with me, laughed easily, and felt safe. I grieve the man I trusted without fear. And I grieve him while still standing in the presence of the man he became.

That is a complicated grief. Because my father is still alive. And so is the fear. People often assume that healing means distance. That freedom means cutting people off. That peace only comes from running away from what hurt you. And for many people, that is the right path.

But that is not the one God has asked of me.

Instead of removing my voice, He gave me one. Instead of leaving me unprotected, He has covered me. Instead of telling me to disappear, He has taught me how to stand. I am still scared of my father — not in the way a child is, frozen and powerless — but in the way someone who remembers the truth is cautious. Trauma doesn’t vanish because faith enters the room. Fear doesn’t dissolve just because forgiveness is possible.

What has changed is this: Fear no longer owns me. God has not asked me to pretend the damage didn’t happen. He has not asked me to minimize the abuse. He has not asked me to reconcile without truth.

He has asked me to face it.

To face the trauma instead of running from it. To face the patterns instead of passing them down. To face the people who shaped me with honesty instead of silence. That doesn’t mean I am unguarded. It means I am no longer voiceless.

I believe God is breaking something generational in me — not by avoidance, but by confrontation rooted in truth and protection. I believe He is asking me to stay present where fear once ruled, not because I am strong on my own, but because He goes before me. This is not about saving my father. It is not about excusing him. It is not about absorbing more harm. It is about refusing to let what happened continue unchecked.

I can love him without denying what he did. I can pray for him without returning to silence. I can be near him without becoming small again. That is the difference. I grieve who he was. I grieve who he never became. And I grieve the childhood that was taken from me. But I am no longer grieving without protection.

I stand here now with memory, with truth, and with God —

and that changes everything.

🕊 Closing Prayer

Lord,

You see the fear that still lives in my body — and You see the courage You placed in my spirit. Thank You for giving me a voice where silence once kept me alive. Thank You for standing between me and what once overpowered me. Thank You for protecting me when I choose truth.

If You are calling me to face what hurt me, go before me. Guard me. Strengthen my boundaries as much as my compassion. Help me love without lying. Help me forgive without forgetting. Help me confront without becoming consumed.

Break every generational curse that tried to take root in me. Let the cycle end here — not through fear, but through obedience and truth. I trust You to hold what I cannot. And I trust You to protect what once had no shield.

Amen.

XOXO,

The Healing Wildflower