I was 3 when my mum left my dad, I don’t even remember it but here’s what I do remember…

I remember the grief, the yearning and the physical pain in my chest as my little body tried to process the loss.

I remember that I didn’t know if, or when, I would ever see him again.

I remember that every time I did see him, I clung to him out of the desperate fear that he was going to leave me again (which he inevitably did when he dropped me back at mum’s).

I remember hating my new step mother because she was jealous of me spending time with my dad.

I remember the awful things she said about my mum, that even as a kid I knew were unfair and untrue but I was put in my place if I tried to defend her.

I remember learning to keep those thoughts to myself and fear speaking up for what I knew was right.

I remember how torn I always felt, I desperately missed my mum when I visited Dad but I desperately missed my dad when I was home with Mum.

I remember how when things were tough for me at home, I fantasised that my dad would turn up and “save” me.

I remember how my visits with my dad became fewer and farther between once he got married and had a new family.

I remember resenting my new brothers for having my dad all to themselves.

I remember believing that I wasn’t good enough for him to love me… that if I was prettier, funnier, smarter… then he would fight for me.

I remember losing touch with him completely by the time I was in high school and using my step dad’s surname.

I remember him resurfacing after 3 years and demanding I use my legal name.

I remember hating having to use his name as by now I’d written him off.

I remember leaving school, living in Perth, struggling to get by and out of sheer desperation looking my dad up in the phone book and calling him.

I remember him dropping everything and driving over to see me.

I remember feeling hope.

I remember calling and visiting him regularly after that.

I remember him never calling or visiting me.

I remember him letting me down regularly by just not showing up when he said he would.

I remember him cutting me off again weeks before my wedding.

I remember years later coming across a way of contacting him and spending weeks agonising over whether if it was worth it.

I remember deciding to get in touch and telling myself it was because I loved my brothers… but knowing it was also because 3 year old me still hadn’t entirely given up on winning her dad’s love.

I remember finally figuring out that he does love me in his own way but that he just doesn’t have the capacity to be the father I wanted.

I remember learning that, that was never my fault.

I remember learning that I am enough.

And I remember finding my voice and learning to have boundaries.

If any part of my story resonates, I hope you know you are enough too ❤️