First, I want to be clear that this is only my side of the story. I'm certain my son has his own experience of everything I've shared, and I know it's just as valid as mine.
I've always known I wanted to be a dad. Despite growing up in an abusive and neglectful home, with caregivers whose behavior left deep emotional scars, becoming a father was something I genuinely looked forward to. More than anything, I wanted the cycle of generational trauma to end with me. I promised myself that my children would never experience the kind of abuse I did.
Both of my parents died young, before the age of 55. My wife and I decided to start trying for children while we still had the chance for at least one grandparent to meet them. My mother passed away five months before my oldest son was born, never getting to meet him.
At 24, I became a dad. I thought I had a plan. We were going to build the kind of family we never hadāone where love was unconditional, where no one was hurt, and where we made our own rules.
Parenting didn't go the way I expected.
It turns out trauma doesn't disappear just because you have good intentions. I loved being a dad from the very beginning and have never once regretted it. The cuddles, the adventures, the discoveries, the laughter, and even the big emotions are some of the greatest gifts of my life.
At the same time, I was carrying years of complex trauma that I didn't fully understand. I didn't recognize the severity of my mental health struggles, which were eventually identified as C-PTSD, OCD, and possibly mild autism. Instead of seeking evidence-based treatment at first, I searched everywhere else for healingāspiritual practices, energy work, crystals, teachers, and personal development programs. I was desperately trying to become the person I thought my kids deserved.
During those years, my moods were unpredictable. My trauma responses showed up regularly. I was trying so hard to be a good father, but I didn't have healthy examples of parenting or relationships to draw from.
By then, we'd welcomed our second child, and soon after, our third. At the same time, I went through three unexpected job changes in two years. Life felt like it was happening all at once.
Eventually, when the alternative approaches weren't helping, I talked to my doctor. I was prescribed Wellbutrin, but it led to severe suicidal thoughts. That experience was frightening, but it also pushed me toward getting the right kind of help. Over the next year and a half, I learned more about my mental health, found better treatment, restarted therapy, and by the time I was 33, I finally felt emotionally stable for the first time in my life.
Looking back, I see two very different versions of myself as a father.
Before I became stable, I wasn't physically abusive, but I was reactive. I yelled. I swore. I demanded compliance. I focused more on what my kids did wrong than what they did right. I wasn't considerate of their feelings or plans, and I often relied on threats of punishment instead of connection. In many ways, I was just difficult to live with.
At the same time, there was another side of me. I planned adventures, vacations, road trips, camping, fishing, hunting, built play spaces, played games, cuddled, and tried to share whatever my kids were interested in. I genuinely loved spending time with them.
After becoming stable, I kept the love and the fun, but I became much more consistent. I'm calmer, more patient, more logical, and much more empathetic. I still make mistakes, but I no longer feel like my emotions are driving the car.
The hardest part is that my oldest son spent the first 13 years of his life with the unstable version of me. That's the father he remembers.
He's an incredible young manāgentle, responsible, hardworking, and independent. As he got older, we dealt with the usual teenage challenges: pushing boundaries, experimenting, making mistakes. Nothing unusual.
Over time, though, I noticed he stopped sharing his life with me. He compartmentalized everything, which I assumed was just normal teenage independence.
Then he started dating someone whose family had things we couldn't offerācamping property, toys, experiences. I became jealous. I worried he'd love her father more than me.
Instead of recognizing that those feelings were about my own insecurity, I let them affect how I behaved.
One day, I accidentally walked in on him and his girlfriend in an intimate moment. She understandably felt embarrassed and no longer wanted to come to our house, so they spent nearly all their time at hers. Instead of accepting the consequences of an awkward situation and acknowledging the strain that already existed in our relationship, I blamed her. I made sarcastic, hurtful comments that I honestly can't even remember now, but I know they caused damage.
Since then, we've been stuck in a painful cycle.
I feel guilty for the ways I hurt him and try to repair things. He keeps me at a distance. I feel rejected and become resentful. He assumes my intentions are bad, and I assume he's intentionally trying to hurt me. Neither of us seems able to step out of that pattern.
He has since moved in with his girlfriend's family. I hoped the distance might eventually help us reset, but it hasn't.
I've asked him if we can work on our relationship. Usually he agrees in the moment, but then nothing happens, and communication fades again.
The truth is, I have no blueprint for what a healthy father-son relationship is supposed to look like. I've asked friends, therapists, and professionals for advice. I've read books and tried to learn. I've never thought of myself as a great parent, but I can honestly say I always wanted to be a good dad, and I did the best I could with the tools I had at the time. That doesn't erase the hurt I caused, but it is the truth.
Interestingly, I don't have these same struggles with my two younger children. They grew up with a much healthier version of me, and if anything, they sometimes overshare.
So I guess this very long story leads to one question:
How do I reconnect with my oldest son?
Do I keep reaching out? Do I give him more space? Is this something that simply takes years?
I miss my boy more than I know how to say. Part of me feels an urgency to fix this before it's too late, but I also know that urgency can create pressure that pushes him further away.
If you've been through something similarāfrom either side of the relationshipāI would genuinely appreciate your thoughts.