Always a Father, Never a Dad

There is a difference between being a father and being a dad. The first is a title, an accident of biology, a name written on a birth certificate. The second is a presence, a warmth, a steady heartbeat in the background of your life. A father can exist without ever truly arriving; a dad arrives without needing to be announced.

I grew up knowing only the first. My father was there in the most technical sense of the word—blood that ran in my veins, a surname that trailed after me like a shadow I never asked for. But he was never a dad. He was never the one to kneel down and tie my shoelaces before school, never the one to carry me when I fell asleep in the backseat, never the one to wipe away tears when the weight of life pressed too hard on my little chest. He was always distant, an outline more than a figure, someone whose absence was louder than his presence.

And yet, somehow, I was not left unloved. Where he should have been, my mother stood instead—strong, independent, full of life, tender, sweet, giving, one of a kind. She carried both roles in her hands, even when they trembled. She was the parent who stayed up through the night when migraines clawed through me, the parent who understood the heavy silence of depression, the one who made sure I never forgot how to laugh despite the bruises life left on my family. She was, in every sense, both anchor and sail.

But there’s a quiet ache in growing up with “a father” but never “a dad.” It’s an absence that cannot be fully filled, no matter how much love surrounds you. It teaches you that not everyone who helps bring you into the world is prepared to help you live in it. It makes you aware, too early, of the fragility of human connection—that love must be chosen, not assumed.

When I look back, I don’t miss him. You can’t miss what you never truly had. What I miss is the idea of him—the dad I might have known if he had chosen differently, if he had stepped forward instead of fading away. I imagine what it would have been like to have someone proud of me, someone to protect me, someone to remind me in his quiet way that I was safe. But those are only shadows of possibilities, silhouettes on the wall of a life that never was.

Instead, I carry the truth: he was always a father, never a dad. And strangely, that truth has given me clarity. It has made me cherish the people who do show up, who stay, who love without conditions or contracts. It has made me hold tighter to my mother, who deserves the title of “dad” more than he ever did. It has made me long for, and recognize, the kind of love that does not abandon, the kind of love that chooses to stay even when it’s hard.

Being left with only a father taught me what it means, deeply, to need a dad. It made me promise myself that one day, if I am given the chance, I will never let someone I love feel the emptiness I have known. Because the difference is everything. The difference is love.

Always a father. Never a dad. Those words sting, but they also remind me of what really matters—not the accident of blood, but the miracle of choosing to love.