Having my father here this time was unlike any other moment we’ve shared, because I had healed an old wound I’d carried since I was a little girl.

A lot has happened in the past few weeks. I find myself at one of those crossroads in life where any path I choose will completely alter what comes next. Nothing feels simple or easy. And now I know that having my father here with me, in this moment, has been an essential part of what I’m moving through.

To make this clearer, I need to return to my past.

I was seven when my mother asked my father for a divorce. I remember my mother talking to me about that moment, though I can’t recall exactly what was said. On the other hand, I don’t remember my father ever talking to me about it.

Not long after my mother asked for the divorce, my father returned to Chile. My sister and I stayed with our mother.

That experience had a profound impact on my life and on my emotional patterns. 

Some time after my father left, I began having panic attacks at school – something that stayed with me into adulthood. Another thing that changed was my relationship with men.

At a certain point, I became afraid of getting involved with boys. I can’t say exactly what it was, only that it was a mix of fear and shame about being myself around them – especially the ones I felt drawn to.

Over time, I came to understand that the block I carried was a deep fear of rejection and abandonment.

It took me 28 years to process that experience and finally integrate and care for the part of me that was wounded and carried the effects of that moment for so long.

I had understood all of this for quite some time—the fear of abandonment, the guilt, the shame, the motivations on each side of the story – and yet, somehow, I was still being triggered in my relationship with my father. I knew I was still carrying a certain judgment toward him.

This time, something meaningful shifted.

I don’t quite know how to put into words what it was, but this time, when I looked at my father, I didn’t see him as my father – I saw him as a human being. It was as if I had removed the filter through which I had always seen him and replaced it with one that was clearer, more transparent. For the first time, I saw my father without the emotional weight that his role carries in my life. 

Today I understand that for this to have been possible, I had to dig through the deepest drawers within myself. And I owe this to my relentless curiosity about understanding the reasons and motivations behind things and people – ironically, something I judged as annoying about myself for a long time.

I noticed this new filter in the first days after his arrival, when I realized that my father has ADHD – and, more than that, how deeply it has shaped and continues to shape his life. The clarity with which I saw everything unsettled me. I was struck by how I had never seen this before.

The fall of that veil was enough for my old triggers to loosen their grip.

But we also had a conversation so honest that it became a turning point for me.

My father told me how devastating that moment of the divorce from my mother had been for him. He said that on the day he returned to Chile, the ones who took him to the bus station were us: my mother, my sister, me, and my uncle – his brother.

He told me that, already seated inside the bus, he took a photo of the goodbye. And then he said that, in that image, there was only one person smiling, waving at him.

He asked me, “Who do you think was happy?”

I thought of my mother – perhaps relieved that he was leaving – and replied, “My mother?”

He said, “No. It was you.”

I had no memory of it.

Trying to understand, and already emotional, I asked, “Did you talk to me about what was happening? Did you explain the situation to me?”

My father confirmed what I had always suspected: “No. I thought you were too young to understand.”

That was when everything reorganized itself inside me. I didn’t know my father was leaving. Much less that he wouldn’t be coming back.

I told him that some time after he left, I stopped eating. I remember clearly the day my mother asked me if I didn’t want to eat because my father was no longer there – and me answering, with the brutal simplicity of a child, yes.

My father said he didn’t know that. He also said that the greatest regret of his life was leaving his daughters.

And I, not only as his daughter but as the woman I have become – someone who has come this far trying to make peace with her own story – told him that I understood. I told him that now, with more time, more awareness, and more life lived, I understand his motivations. That I forgive him. And that he, too, could forgive himself.

That conversation felt like opening the door to a dark, cold basement. 

I know this is rare. I recognize that having the opportunity to both receive and offer our vulnerability to our parents is extremely difficult – and often impossible. And so, I recognize the depth and rarity of the precious chance I was given.

A few days ago, I shared a brilliant post on Instagram that said:

“After a certain age, you stop being a product of your environment or how you were raised. The way you live your life becomes a personal choice. At some point, blaming the past turns into a distraction from your future. Healing is your responsibility. Growth is your decision.”

We only truly mature when we begin to take responsibility for what happened to us without placing blame on anyone – including ourselves. We can’t change the past, but we can understand it and reframe it. That is how we interrupt the repetition of the patterns we inherit from our parents – the very patterns that, at the very least, irritate us, at their limit enrage us, and ultimately shape how we relate to others.

Most often, these patterns are passed down from generation to generation until someone develops the self-awareness, courage, and energy to break the cycle.

If I were to offer one suggestion on how to begin this process of maturing, I would say the first step is self-compassion. We can only extend compassion, empathy, and discernment to others once we have developed these qualities towards ourselves. As Yung Pueblo says:

“The highest form of love is to work on yourself, so that you can offer the best version of yourself to others.”

How many dissatisfied, mechanical relationships –marked by condescension, contempt, and toxicity –end up teaching the next generations, not through what they say but through how they live, everything that love is not.

And I don’t write this from a place of judgment, because change doesn’t depend solely on willpower or motivation. It requires a level of self-reflection that one either has – or doesn’t. Each person resonates at their own frequency, and there is nothing we can do to force this kind of change in anyone.

I share this, first and foremost, as a way to process my own experience and organize my inner world. And second, in the hope that my example might illustrate the fragility of human relationships and the visceral impact they have on us.

I chose to change, despite all the losses and trade-offs that change demands, because I believe life is too short not to live a love that is true, safe, and trustworthy – even if that love is only the love we have for ourselves.

And I wish, and hope to contribute, so that more and more people may also experience this.

From my heart to yours,