I come from a line of heavy silence.
Of slammed doors, half-truths, and breath held too long.
I come from a man who numbed himself until there was nothing left to feel.
I come from an alcoholic father.
And for a long time, I hated that truth.
I hated what it did to him.
I hated what it did to me.
He wasn’t all bad — it’s never that simple.
He could be funny.
He could be generous.
Sometimes, when he wasn’t drinking, he even tried to be present.
But the bottle always came first.
And I learned, very young, to become invisible when the air got heavy.
I learned how to read moods like weather patterns,
how to avoid, appease, adapt — anything to keep the peace.
They say we inherit more than eye color.
We inherit silence.
We inherit patterns.
We inherit the ache to self-destruct when things get too quiet.
And for a while, I carried that too.
I ran fast and hard from everything that felt too close.
I didn’t trust love.
Didn’t trust stillness.
Didn’t trust myself.
But one day I looked in the mirror — exhausted, angry, barely hanging on —
and I said, “It ends with me.”
Not because I’m stronger.
Not because I’m better.
But because I’m willing to face what he never could.
I’ve cried over things he never named.
I’ve sat in rooms he wouldn’t walk into.
I’ve said the hard things out loud,
even when my voice shook.
I’ve learned how to love in a way that doesn’t hurt.
I’ve learned how to stay when it’s uncomfortable.
I’ve learned how to feel — really feel — without numbing it away.
That’s what breaking the cycle looks like.
It’s not clean or pretty or linear.
It’s messy. It’s gutting.
It’s choosing to be the one who says,
“This pain doesn’t get passed down one more generation.”
I don’t know what kind of parent he could’ve been if he had found healing.
But I know what kind of daughter I’ve become because I did.
And that means everything.