He Didn't Choose Me

But I do.

I was abandoned twice by my father.

Once before I was even born and again when he passed away without ever really trying to know us.

Growing up, he wasn’t in my life. I wouldn’t know him if we passed on the street. I remember him calling my mother a few times when I was young and like most kids do when a parent is on the phone, my brother, sisters and I would get silly in the background, just wanting to be seen, to be heard, to matter. I only remember one real conversation with him. If you could even call it that. I just remember hearing his voice and not the details. Even then, it felt like talking to a stranger. I didn’t have an image in my mind of what a father was supposed to be except for the ones I saw on TV. I had my momma, my aunt Joyce, and my grandmother. That was my world. And at the time, I didn’t realize how much his absence had shaped me.

But it did.

There was a quiet emptiness under the surface. A longing I didn’t know how to name. I was silly and open and soft-hearted until I realized I was different. Different from the other little girls with clean shoes and neat hair bows from JCPenney. I was raised in a Black subdivision on the edge of a mostly white town. We were bussed into school, and most days, I was the only Black child in class. I did not try to assimilate. I became an outsider.

My momma did her best. I know she tried.

But I also remember going to school with my hair uncombed. I remember feeling embarrassed. Left out. Like life was happening in a way that I couldn’t access. I didn’t feel pretty. I didn’t feel enough.

When I was in sixth grade, I begged for a Jheri Curl. I thought it was going to change my WHOLE LIFE! My momma took me to the hair shop and left me there to get back to work. Ms. Mary called my momma on her job and asked if she really wanted to cut off all my hair because it had been relaxed before and the curl wouldn’t take. Still, I insisted. I thought if I had the right hair, maybe I’d feel pretty. Maybe I’d finally be seen.

I left with a curl, but it was about two inches long.

When we got home, I’ll never forget the look on my grandmother’s face. She covered her mouth and laughed. She didn’t mean to hurt me, but it shattered something inside of me. It wasn’t just about the hair. It felt like then was when I started avoiding people’s eyes. A pit of shame grew in my stomach that didn’t go away for a very long time.

When I was a junior in high school, my mother told us our father had cancer. They were still technically married, so she was able to bring him back to our home and care for him under her insurance.

This man, who I had never laid eyes on, was suddenly in our living room in a hospital bed, frail and hooked to machines. And strangely, none of us kids were angry. We were numb. Disconnected. But it felt like my life had shifted somehow and I was in unknown territory.

Not very long after, my boyfriend who was emotionally unstable and struggling, stole my father’s Morphine pills and overdosed. When I saw my boyfriend in the hospital, tubes everywhere, he handed me a note that simply said, I’m sorry.

I didn’t realize until much later how these two men in hospital beds would forever change my sense of safety.

And still, my father didn’t really try.

Even when he was recovering and had a second chance, he didn’t spend time getting to know his children. He spent his energy tending to his niece’s yard, helping with her kids, showing up for her. That abandonment wasn’t loud. It was quiet, dismissive, and final. He chose to invest elsewhere.

He did write me a letter, apologizing. I know it took courage for him to write the words but it still felt empty. He told me a story I’d heard before about how his own mother had given him away to a family down the street. How she would let him come “visit” his siblings, but send him home when it got dark. I know he was hurting. I know he didn’t know how to love. I know that. But that didn’t mend my broken heart.

When he passed away, I felt grief I couldn’t explain. I cried so many tears. Not just because he died but because he never tried. Not in a way that I could identify. He had the chance, and he still didn’t choose us. And it took me years to realize that this kind of grief doesn’t just go away. It doesn’t fade. It buries itself in the way we perform for love. It shoes up in the way we overextend ourselves, and overprove hoping someone will finally see us as lovable, even when we’re not performing.

But I’m on a mission to leave over performing in the past.

I am not begging to be picked. I don’t shrink myself to be loved.

I am worthy. I am good enough. I am loveable. Even when I’m not putting on a show.

Even when I’m just being me.

That little girl inside of me is still healing.

She still wants to be chosen, still wants someone to show up without needing a performance. And now, I show up for her. I hold her. I mother her. I tell her she’s good enough.

The thing about performing for love is that it’s exhausting. It keeps you feeling empty. You never feel safe. You’re always waiting to be found out and always hoping you’ve done “enough” to be chosen. But real love doesn’t require that kind of performance. Real love sees you and stays. It allows you to rest.

If you find yourself performing for love, I hope you’ll remind yourself that you don’t have to earn what you already are. You can start small. One breath at a time.

Take up space. Keep your head held high. Say no to people pleasing and yes to yourself.

Grieve what you never got. Forgive yourself for trying so hard. Rest because you deserve to, not because you earned it.

And then choose you, again and again and again.

You are worthy. You always were.

And you don’t have to perform to be loved.

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