I Am Scared of Who I’ve Become

“He was supposed to be my first love, the man who set the standard for care and kindness—but instead, he became the first man to break me, leaving me to piece myself back together.”

There are moments when I don’t recognize myself—moments where I’ve unraveled in ways I can’t take back.

• Like the time I screamed at my dad and told him that I hated him. The words tore through the air like a storm, loud and messy. My voice cracked, sharp like glass shattering against walls. His silence answered me louder than I could have imagined. He just stood there, his face caught somewhere between hurt and disbelief.

I thought it would feel satisfying, like a release of all the tension building inside me. But it didn’t. It felt hollow, as though I had built a house of anger, only to realize it had no foundation. The silence between us was unbearable, stretching longer than it ever had before. And though I wanted to cling to my anger—to hold on to it like armor—it slipped through my fingers like water, leaving only guilt behind.

Later, when the fire burned out and the adrenaline faded, I cried in front of him. I didn’t know how many aura points I lost when I blew up at my dad every time I accidentally yelled at him, and then cried just because I was so upset, to be honest. How do you measure something like that? Love and respect chipped away piece by piece, every sharp word a tiny hammer. It felt like some invisible scoreboard was keeping track of my failures, counting every time I hurt someone I cared about.

• I felt small. Like a child again, caught in the mess of emotions I didn’t know how to navigate. But this time, I wasn’t the one learning—I was teaching, showing him just how far the apple had fallen from the tree. And the irony wasn’t lost on me.

There’s something terrifying about seeing your own reflection in someone else, especially when it’s the parts you don’t like. When you get mad and instantly realize you’ve just acted the same way your dad does when he’s angry. It’s a sinking feeling, like watching a film on repeat and suddenly realizing you’re playing the starring role. The same clenched jaw, the same sharp edge in my words. I could see him in me, in the way my voice rose just a little too high, in the way I couldn’t stop even though I knew I should.

Am I becoming him? Or am I just finding pieces of him in me that I never noticed before?

I don’t want to admit it, but I’ve spent so much time being angry at him that I never stopped to wonder if I was turning into him. Anger has a way of doing that—of disguising itself as control when really, it’s the one in control. And in that moment, I was no better than the parts of him I resented.

• There’s a room in my mind, wallpapered with regret. It’s filled with all the things I wish I could unsay, and all the times I wished I’d just held on to my composure. I visit it often, more than I’d like to admit. It’s where I keep the truths I’m too scared to say out loud: That I love him, even when it’s hard. That I hate the parts of myself that remind me of him, but I’m scared of losing those too.

I hate how much of me is tied to him. I hate how much of my identity has been shaped by the things he’s done, both good and bad. And I hate that sometimes, I don’t know where he ends and I begin.

But I also know that anger isn’t the whole story. Beneath the shouting and the tears, there’s something softer. Something quieter. A love that’s messy and imperfect but still there, stubbornly holding on despite everything.

As his first daughter, I felt the weight of expectations—the unspoken rules that I had to bear alone. Maybe that’s why the anger comes so easily now. The disappointment isn’t just in the way things are; it’s in knowing how much more they could have been. I spent years hoping for something different, for him to change, for us to fix what was broken. But now, I’ve come to accept the truth: it’s already too late for him to change things between us.

And yet, I still hope. Not for myself anymore, but for my siblings. I hope he can be better for them. That he can be the father they need, even if he couldn’t be that for me. They don’t deserve to carry the same weight I’ve carried, the same anger I’ve had to wrestle with. They deserve his best, whatever that looks like now.

• But some days, it feels impossible to hold that hope. Especially when I see how other daughters are treated by their fathers. When I watch the way they laugh together, their inside jokes and their shared moments of understanding, it cuts deeper than I’d like to admit. Seeing them bond over things I’ll never have—kindness, patience, a quiet but unwavering love—tears me apart. It’s like watching a scene from a movie I’ll never be cast in. I feel like an outsider, peeking through the window at something I can never touch.

Just Because by Sadie Jean

• But I can’t help from hurting, I guess I’m still learning.
• And just because I almost called, don’t mean I wish I had.
• And just because I felt like dying when you left out of the blue. It doesn’t mean I wanna be with anyone like you.
• Just because you said it doesn’t mean that it was real. And just because you’re sorry now it doesn’t mean I’ve healed.
• From letting you take almost all of me until you had enough. Looking back, it only means you hurt me, you hurt me just because.
• Hurt me just because (should’ve never let, should’ve never let) Hurt me just for fun (are you happy yet? Are you happy yet?) Hurt for what? 'Cause (and I won’t forget).

He was supposed to be my first man—the one who showed me what love looks like, who set the standard for every man I’d meet after him. Instead, he became the first man who made me cry, who tore me apart in ways I couldn’t explain. And the worst part is, I still wanted him to be that man. I wanted him to love me gently, to protect me, to show me that I was enough just as I was.

But that version of him doesn’t exist—not for me, anyway. Maybe it’s selfish to say that out loud, to admit that I feel robbed of something I never had. But it’s the truth. And even now, as I write this, I feel the weight of that longing. They said, “a girl’s first love will forever be their dad” but I guess that was not made for me. I wished to never see my dad figure in the future the love of my life…

The guilt comes in waves, crashing down when I least expect it. I wonder if he remembers me as the little kid who used to run into his arms or if all he sees now is someone who lashes out. I wonder if he’s scared too—scared of who I’ve become, scared of the parts of him that live on in me.

I don’t know how to fix what I’ve broken. Words aren’t glue, and apologies can’t erase scars. But I hope that somewhere in my stumbles, there’s growth. I hope he can see that I’m trying, even when I fall short.

And maybe that’s the lesson in all of this : that love isn’t about getting it right all the time. It’s about showing up, even when it’s hard. It’s about acknowledging the hurt, even when it’s uncomfortable. It’s about trying, over and over again, even when you’re scared of failing.

Because as much as I’m scared of who I’ve become, I’m more scared of losing the chance to make things right.