Where Did My Dad Go?
When closure isn't an option
To the deep thinkers,
Welcome to the Deep Thinkers Newsletter: A collection of essays dedicated to going beyond the surface.
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Author’s Note:
This isn’t an essay with all the answers. It’s not about assigning blame or painting anyone as a villain. It’s about telling the truth—the messy, complicated truth of growing up fatherless and learning how to carry that weight with grace. If you’ve felt this pain, I hope you feel seen in these words.
The other day, I was at the store when I heard, "Yo, is that Jonathan!?"
Now, I’ve never been a big fan of my name. I’ve gone by "Jon" ever since I graduated high school over a decade ago. So when someone calls me by my full name, it’s likely they knew me during a completely different chapter of my life.
Turns out I was right.
As I turned to see who it was, I felt a surge of nostalgic joy mixed with trepidation. It was one of my childhood friends—someone I hadn’t seen in almost 15 years, with whom I share many fond memories. We didn’t have much time to talk. I was on my lunch break, and he was on the clock. So we sped through a ten-minute reunion, doing our best to catch each other up on the decade and a half that had passed since we last spoke.
I could tell he was carrying a lot on his shoulders—he had the energy of a man who’d lived many lifetimes.
And I wondered... did he see the same in me?
As our brief encounter continued, the topic that inspired this essay came up. My friend told me his dad, who’d been in prison since we were kids, had recently been released.
My friend and I both grew up without our fathers during our formative years, so I was absolutely floored by the news. I could also tell that he was still processing the magnitude of this change in his life. It was as if, in telling me, he was still trying to convince himself it was real.
I told him how happy I was for him. We exchanged numbers and promised to get together soon for a proper reunion.
Maybe we’ll stay in touch, maybe we won’t. But one thing is certain: I won’t forget our conversation any time soon.
After that talk, I thought my emotions began and ended with joy—joy for an old friend, someone whose experience of growing up fatherless I’d witnessed firsthand. But as I sat with the moment, I realized my feelings ran deeper than joy.
There was more there. More to unpack. More to confront.
I was happy for my friend—truly. There was nothing false about that. But another emotion wouldn’t be ignored.
That emotion was envy.
My father disappeared like a thief in the night when I was still a baby—without a trace—and to this day, I have no idea where he might be or if he’s even still alive.
I understand that my envy, this bitterness that has seeped into my heart, stems from the doubt that I’ll ever get the closure I’ve longed for all my life. My childhood friend’s good news had morphed into an existential torrent of emotions that left me wondering: Did this feeling of envy make me a bad person?
But how could it not stir something in me? My father vanished, and the man who replaced him—my stepfather—made me an enemy instead of a son. A raging narcissist, he was more concerned with asserting control than offering care. In my childhood home, there were no instructions on how to become a man. No gentle guidance, no meaningful rites of passage—only punishment and emotional neglect.
When I think of those who grew up fatherless or those whose fathers mistreated them, I think of this quote by James Wilson from his book Cry Like a Man: Fighting for Freedom from Emotional Incarceration:
Men expect boys to act like men, but there’s rarely a man in their lives patiently teaching them how to be one! In other words, like my favorite movie, The Matrix, everyone wants a Neo, but only few dare to be Morpheus.
There comes a time in every young man’s life when expectations are hoisted onto his shoulders. But whether he rises to meet those expectations often depends on whether he had someone to show him how to carry the weight. Without a proper guide—a sensei, a Morpheus—we’re left to navigate it all on our own, utterly and completely lost.
Welcome to the world, little one
It's so precarious—to have our early lives in the hands of a parent who does not consider us a priority.
When we come into the world, we have no agency. We are like soft soil; what our parents plant early grows deep within us: their beliefs, their values, and, if we’re lucky, their love.
So much of who we become begins with what our parents choose to pass down—or fail to.
And so, I ask you:
What did your father teach you?
Did he teach you the importance of integrity? The history of music and film, or how to play a sport? Did he show you how to approach a girl you liked or which shirt matched your sneakers? Did he cheer you on at your band concerts or basketball games? Did he ask you what you wanted to be when you grew up? Did he teach you how to apply for an apartment, a credit card, or a car loan? Did he help you navigate your first heartbreak?
I was fortunate enough to have my mother in my life. I owe so much to her. But a boy needs his father.
In his TEDx Talk, The Lifelong Impact of Absent Fathers, Kent D. Ballard, Jr. talks about a few types of dads.
A Disney Dad is the dad who is locked in on everything their kid is up to. They're available. They're engaged. They are at the basketball and football games. They're at the recitals and are constantly the parent most willing to volunteer for anything their kid is involved in. For those with Disney Dads, most of their memories with their fathers are positive.
A Hollow Dad is a father who is physically present but emotionally distant or flat-out emotionally absent. The Hollow Dad is a living statue—coming to life only to dish out their brand of discipline or to point out how their child is screwing up.
Last, we have the Invisible Dad. This is the father who is not around or was never around. Basically, a ghost.
It’s a sad—but all too common—scene: the boy growing up fatherless, left to navigate the harder road alone. Whether our fathers show up as loving role models is out of our control. And so, in facing my own pain, I’ve realized that finding peace means focusing on what I can control—that, and finding strength in what I did have.
And I know it all sounds good in theory—focus on what you can control and be grateful. It’s beautiful when spoken aloud. I’ve written in gratitude journals, cried in therapy, poured myself into my writing—but still, the pain remains. The rage, too. It distorts my vision, threatens to consume me. But I have to try because my life is mine to shape as I see fit, and I try because allowing the ghost of my dad to consume me would dishonor the love I’ve been shown throughout my whole life.
The choice is mine, and with every step, I honor both the struggle and the love that have shaped me, drawing the strength I need to keep moving forward.
If not closure, then strength
My mom tells me my father lived beyond the margins—deep in a world where rules didn’t apply. Maybe that life had finally caught up to him. Maybe he didn’t choose it over me—but the evidence is hard to ignore.
A father is meant to be a boy’s first example of authority, accountability, and love. When that figure is absent or uninterested, you’re left to fend for yourself, unprepared for the weight of the world.
I’ve spoken to many men who know this pain—the feeling of being set adrift, fighting to stay above water while life just keeps piling on.
Though mine left when I was a baby, I still carry pieces of him. My mom says I walk like him, have his mannerisms. His absence shaped me not through what he gave but through what he withheld, and as a boy trying to figure it all out on my own, it felt like playing basketball in cleats. I slipped, I fell, I got hurt—but no one was coming to save me.
Confused and spiteful, I grew from a boy to a man, having to learn many of life’s toughest lessons on my own. I can’t erase my history, and I may be denied closure for these wounds, but I know I can still find strength and hope in all the good I’ve lived.
That, and the realization of a deep truth about myself:
When it's my turn to be a father, I will be all I didn't have and more. I will be present. I will be loving. I will be the ultimate friend and guide to my children.
To those of you who need the reminder: growing up fatherless is not a reflection of you. To be a father is a call worth answering. Unfortunately, some reject the call.
I wish this were an essay offering a definitive solution to fatherlessness, but it’s not. Instead, it’s about finding strength in the good you’ve done and in the good that’s been done to you.
I may always be jealous of the kids who had even a semblance of a relationship with their dads. But the choice is mine—I can focus on what I didn’t have, or I can focus on what I did have: a loving mother, good friends, and countless examples of strong and loving women in my life. I am a reflection of it all.
To the fatherless: When we decide that the cycle of neglect ends with us, we can become the source of generational transformation, the kind that echoes far beyond our time in this world.
To those who never had a father to call home—you are still worthy of love, still capable of greatness, and still able to become the kind of presence that heals. I wrote this for us.
If this essay resonated with you, consider supporting my writing journey! You can ‘buy me a coffee’ using the link below 👇🏾
What I’m into this week:
Angel Cake by Jamal Stranger (Substack)
When Beyonce straps bullets of rebellion on her chest before her performance at the Superbowl it isn’t a statement of anti-whiteness.
It’s a piece of Black history that’s demonized for disagreeing with the status quo.
The death of the public intellectual by BEA (Substack)
When your goal is not only to present ideas but to make them palatable and digestible for a distracted audience, the boundaries of intellectualism start to blur. Ideas are no longer for discussion, they’re for consumption.
Much love,
- Jon ♾️
You said it all Jon. You are a beautiful person with a gift and a heart for words. Your words. Thank you for sharing your heart, and your hope. You said it all when you said, “….when I become a father….” maybe you don’t have to wait to become a father figure in a young boy’s life who doesn’t have one right now for whatever reason? Look around, maybe ask around, maybe get free training first from a Big Brother organization or other mens group before starting? Not that you need any training or experience of fatherless heart matters, but for the preparation needed perhaps to give your best in a safe way for both people. Just a thought. You have so much love inside you to give. Any boy would be blessed to have you in their life, like winning the lottery perhaps to them.
The littlest things you can do for a young, fatherless boy can have a life changing impact. Maybe working in an afterschool program offering a writing or journaling class for at-risk boys in your city? Healing others can help heal ourselves.
Sending you a hug, and a $coffee, through my words of appreciation and encouragement, the same as you give your readers that those suffering from any family loss, are not alone in their grief. Thank you.
Thank you.
Lost Boys
No longer sharing a field at harvest,
men’s bodies glistening with sweat
and a common silence.
Seeing his father’s blood from a sharpened scythe.
Knowing what it means to bleed.
Now… starched shirts out the door… crisp and conforming.
Never knowing that the fourth beer is the bandage for his wounds,
when whiteness and submission return from a field…
he has never smelled nor seen.
And the boy out into another dark night
wearing a t-shirt with bold words, “No Fear”,
Wounded but without a story or a scar to share.
Michael Tscheu
In memory of Robert Bly