Silence Speaks Louder

My dad really knows how to piss me off.

I just got published in a mental health magazine. For me, this is huge. I’m just beginning to share my writing, and seeing my words out in the world — not just tucked away in my laptop or Notes app — feels like confirmation from the universe.

When I texted my friends, my cousin, and my therapist, the responses came back immediately: Congratulations. This is big. Good job. Everyone celebrated with me. Everyone but my dad.

He left me on read. Four hours later, he finally responded — about something completely unrelated.

Old me would’ve snapped. New me still wanted to, but I stopped myself. What good does it do to scream at someone who has never listened and will never change? Instead, I talked it out in therapy. I wrote it out with my pen. I know my emotions are safe and felt and heard in those places.

But the truth is, I wanted to call him and say: What the hell is wrong with you? Your daughter is thriving. She’s beautiful. She’s intelligent. She’s making it.

I spent my childhood trying to armor myself in excellence because my parents rarely made me feel good enough. I thought good grades, achievements, awards, wit — something — would finally earn me the unconditional validation I craved. My mom did better with that than my dad, but even her love felt conditional at times. One day she would praise me, the next she would cut me open. As a child, I couldn’t comprehend the inconsistency.

My dad, on the other hand, never made me feel he truly believed in me. When I got into Spelman, my mom celebrated and took me to visit. My dad discouraged me, said I’d always needed tutors and probably wouldn’t survive Spelman’s curriculum. He pushed me toward a cheaper state school. My mom insisted: Go chase your dreams.

So I did.

But even when I graduated from Spelman, there was no real celebration. The night ended not with a dinner but with chaos, arguments, and tension between my parents. A bunch of selfish survivors raised me. I’m so grateful I no longer live on their frequency.

Yes, my dad supported me financially when he could. Yes, he showed up physically. But emotionally, it was never enough. And that still hurts. He’s my only living parent, and part of me will always want his recognition. But I refuse to keep waiting on it.

I validate myself now. With this pen. With my therapist. With the life I’ve built through daydreams, hard work, and stubborn resilience.

Because the truth is, nothing in this life has ever come easy for me. But it always comes on time — and always better than I expect. I don’t take no for an answer. If the door doesn’t open, I find a window. If there’s no way forward, I carve one. I am resourceful. I am resilient. I am proof that persistence and faith can rewrite the script.

So when my dad left me on read, I left him on read too. My silence speaks louder than my anger ever could.

And this moment — being published, being seen, being heard — is mine. It’s not just about words on a screen. It’s about me declaring to the world, and to myself: I will always find my yes. I will always make a way. I am a Writer.