Most of us don’t realize we have a father wound. Not because it isn’t there — but because we’ve lived with it so long, we stopped noticing. We called it “independence.” We called it “self-reliance.” We called it “just the way I am.” But underneath those labels, there’s often a small, quiet ache: the feeling of being unseen, unprotected, or uncelebrated by the first man who was supposed to show us what love looks like.
