There are letters I write in my head that never leave my lips.
Letters I whisper in the car, in the kitchen, in the quiet.
Letters I scribble in my journal, or tuck behind my eyes like tiny, burning secrets.

This is one of those letters.
To my dad.
The one I’m desperate to write. The one I don’t want to.

And maybe that’s why it matters.

The Father’s Day gift is still on the kitchen table.
It’s wrapped. Neat. Waiting. I thought maybe it could say what I couldn’t.
But I can’t send it. It’s impossible to, and impossible not to.

There’s a kind of heartbreak in that middle space—in wanting something to change so badly you’re willing to try again… even when you know how the story usually ends.

He won’t call. He won’t ask questions. He’ll likely forget Leo’s pronouns. Again.
And when I say something—if I say something—it will be met with silence, anger, or avoidance.
The message will be: Why do you have to bring this up? Why can’t you just let things be?

But I can’t.
Because letting things “be” means leaving myself behind.

My dad always said, “roll with the flow.”
As Ben once asked—why don’t you roll with my flow?
That question echoes through my body like a tuning fork.
We’ve done it his way for 50 years.

Dad, why is being in relationship so hard?
Why can’t you say “I love you”?
Why can’t you hug me?
Why do you never call first?
Why can’t we talk about the past, about being gay, about anything real?

Why must our relationship always be shaped by what makes you comfortable?

I have been uncomfortable my whole life.

And here’s the truth I don’t want to admit:
I’m doing it too.

Yesterday I had a blow-up with Leo about their green juice.
Green juice. Of all things.

I told them, again, to drink it.
I was annoyed before they even came downstairs.
I had already written the story in my head: they wouldn’t listen, I’d have to push, it would be tense. Again.

I hate this.
Not the juice—the dynamic. The micromanaging. The managing instead of meeting. The handling instead of hearing.

And it hit me:
I’ve become the thing I swore I wouldn’t be.
Not because I want to be, but because control feels like protection… until it doesn’t.

I know how painful it is to be parented like this. I lived it.
And I want something different for Leo.

I want to be a parent who says:
I see you.
I trust you.
You don’t have to change for me to love you.

I want to live differently.
To wake up and not scan for what’s wrong.
To see possibility instead of pitfall.
To lead with belief, not fear.

God, help me see with new eyes.
Eyes that soften. Eyes that bless.
Eyes that don’t pass down pain in the name of protection.

Maybe this letter is also to me.
To the version of me who keeps trying to earn love.
To the version of me who is still afraid of making people uncomfortable.
To the version of me who’s learning how to trust my own flow.

Leo,
First, I want to say I love you.
Second, I’m sorry I have such a hard time showing you.

I tend to keep my heart pretty close to my chest. I feel a thousand things, think a gagillion thoughts, and maybe speak a few of them. That keeps you in the dark. And then I get mad at you for not being close to me. I know it starts with me.

I want to be the parent I always wished I had:
One who would hold me when I’m scared, talk to me when I’m confused, love me when I’m struggling to love myself. Laugh with me, play with me, celebrate with me.

Mostly, I want to be the kind of parent who holds the space for their kid to be exactly who they are.

And Leo—you are magnificent. Exactly as you are.

If you have a letter you’ve never sent…
To a parent, a partner, a part of yourself…
Maybe you don’t have to send it. But maybe you need to write it.
Not for them. For you.

Let it be the first step toward breaking the cycle.
Let it be the beginning of a better story.