(To be read aloud, then released—this is for you, not him.)
- “What I needed from you, and what I got instead…”
Write as if you’re finally naming the gap. Be honest, even if it feels harsh. You’re allowed to need things. - “If I could freeze time and show you one moment from my childhood…”
Choose a specific scene where you felt invisible, confused, or quietly alone. Describe it like a movie still—what would he see? What wouldn’t he notice? - “Here’s what I used to believe about you… and here’s what I’m starting to understand now.”
Allow the contradictions. Let both love and longing show up. Grieve the father you wanted, and name what might be true about who he is. - “When you didn’t show up (or didn’t see me), here’s what I told myself it meant…”
This one helps unearth internalized shame, fear, or self-blame. It’s not about judging him—it’s about freeing you from the stories you had to write in his silence. - “The quietest pain I carried was…”
Bring voice to the ache that went unnamed the longest. Maybe no one ever asked. Let the page be the witness. - “I see now that you were doing your best, and also…”
Compassion and accountability are not opposites. This prompt invites you to hold both truths without spiritual bypassing. - “This is what I’ve learned about love—in spite of you, and sometimes because of you…”
Trace how your own heart grew around the wound. How you love now. What you protect, and what you’re learning to soften. - “Before I burn this letter, here’s what I’m giving back to you…”
List the burdens, roles, or beliefs you carried on his behalf. End the letter by setting them down.