What Does It Feel Like When Your Father Loves You? — The Question That Made Me Cry at 30,000 Feet

What I still find strangest of all is that I’ve never asked myself this before…

When I signed up for my internet subscription, my provider threw in a free subscription to SkyShowtime.

To be honest, the only thing I ever use it for is downloading movies to watch on the plane. Other than that, I rarely open it. Most of what's on there just isn't really my kind of thing.

So for this flight, I had downloaded a full nine movies. Obviously, I never have time to watch more than one and a half, but I like giving myself options.

As it turned out, I didn't have much of a choice after all.

Six of the nine movies hadn't finished downloading. For reasons I still don't understand, that happens a lot with SkyShowtime. (Five of them are still showing as "downloading," even though I landed sixteen hours ago.)

Of the three that had downloaded successfully, only one would actually play: The Godfather Part III.

I got myself all settled in: tray table down, phone in its holder, travel pillow inflated, earbuds in.

Naturally, I fell asleep.

I'd been up since 2:00 a.m. because of the early flight and the fairly long trip from Bagheria to the airport.

I woke up halfway through the movie, and not long afterward I watched a scene in which Mary asks her father, Michael Corleone, about a foundation he had created in his children's names without telling them anything about it.

Mary accepts his explanation and says she hopes it will bring them closer together. Michael embraces her and says:

“I would burn in hell to keep you safe.”

The tears welled up in my eyes because, for the first time in my life, a question crossed my mind:

What does it feel like when your father loves you?

I tried to imagine what that warm, generous embrace would feel like. The kind of embrace Michael gives Mary when he wraps his arms around her.

I think I would close my eyes and simply dissolve into the endless warmth of it.

I would never want to open them again. Never want to wake up from that feeling of safety.

I would feel as though I had finally come home. Protected. As though nothing evil could ever reach me again.

If I could ever experience that, I think I would feel as though my life were complete.

But that's just fantasy.

My fantasy.

I don't know what it feels like to be loved by my father.

So I asked ChatGPT.

These days I find myself talking to it more and more.

Like so many people do.

(Real conversations with other people seem to be getting harder and harder.)

I asked:

“What does it feel like when your father loves you?”

This was the answer:

ChatGPT

That's a profound question, and the answer is different for every family. But many people who grow up with a loving father describe it something like this:

1.  You feel safe with him, even when you make mistakes.

2.  You know he's proud of you for who you are, not just for what you achieve.

3.  He listens to you and takes your feelings seriously.

4.  He's there when you need him, especially during difficult times.

5.  He sets boundaries because he cares about you, not because he wants to control or diminish you.

6.  You don't feel like you constantly have to earn his love; you feel like it has always been there.

That doesn't mean a loving father is perfect. He can get angry, make mistakes, or fall short. The difference is that he takes responsibility, tries to repair the relationship, and lets you know that you matter.

It's not that I didn't have a father. The reality is that I can't honestly check a single one of those six boxes.

1

I never felt safe around him.
Quite the opposite.
Whenever he came home, or even just walked into the room, a sudden feeling of unrest came over me. I knew whatever peaceful thing I had been doing was over. Before long there would be an order—something I had to do right away—or criticism. Maybe my shoes were sitting carelessly in the hallway and needed to be put away immediately, followed by a long, annoying lecture. Or, if he was already in the room, I knew that at any unpredictable moment he might point out something I'd done wrong, something I'd said, something I hadn't done, or simply remind me how wrong I was as a person.

2

Proud?
No.
Ashamed.
His default attitude toward me—or perhaps more accurately, about me in front of other people—was one of embarrassment.
Other than one single occasion (when I was nine years old and which genuinely surprised me) he never stood up for me.
Quite the opposite.
Whenever I had a conflict with someone, it was always my fault. I was always told to think carefully about what I had done wrong.
And at birthday parties, he never missed an opportunity to ridicule me.
Especially at my own birthdays.

3

Take my feelings seriously?
No, I was always told I was feeling things "the wrong way." Or my feelings would be turned into a caricature so they could be dismissed.

4

No, he was rarely there when I needed him.
And if it had been entirely up to him, he wouldn't have been there at all.
The only reason he sometimes showed up was because his girlfriend encouraged him to.
Whenever I complained about him, she would be quick to point out,
“But he was there for you at times, wasn’t he?”

5

As for boundaries, I think his were mostly based on two questions:
A. How much is this going to cost me?
B. How much inconvenience is this going to cause me?

6

Until I was forty-two, it felt as though my life's mission was to earn my father's love.
Then, because of a tragic event, I was forced to accept that I never would.
The moment I truly understood that, I cut off all contact on the spot.

So there I was, sitting on that airplane with tears in my eyes.
And I thought:
Good.
Because my grief is usually so overwhelming that I can't even cry about it.
Oddly enough, it's precisely when crying isn't appropriate that the urge becomes almost impossible to resist.
I thought: Go ahead. Let the tears flow.

Years ago, I wouldn't even have dared admit how deeply this hurts.
I would have called myself overly sensitive.
Or I would have heard the accusing voice of one of my parents in my head, telling me how childish and self-pitying I was.

But now, at fifty-six, I'm finally starting to accept myself a little.
And I think:
This is something I grieve.
It's a deep grief.
It exists.
And I'm allowed to express it.

Anyway...

I made it home safely to Amsterdam. 😉 

How about you?
Do you feel loved by your father?
Tell me what that feels like.

Here's the scene from The Godfather Part III.

Featured in SATURDAYS with Diana "Am I Worthy of Love—Even Without Him?" Read the issue →

Photo: Katie Gerrard