There are moments when I feel rage not the fleeting kind, not frustration, but a deep, consuming fire that boils in my chest and makes the world blur. And in that split second, I don’t feel like me. I feel like him.
My father.
That’s the part that guts me the most. Because I’ve spent so much of my life trying to survive him. To distance myself from his voice, his violence, his control, his chaos. But when I feel that fury surge through my body, I recognise it not because it feels foreign, but because it feels familiar. I’ve seen it before. In his clenched fists. In his eyes when he looked at me like I was the problem. In the silence after the storm, where love was meant to be but never was.
And I hate it. I hate that it lives in me. I hate that part of him was carved into me without my permission taught to me in screams and threats, in moments I couldn’t even cry safely. I hate that the same rage that terrified me as a child now echoes through my nervous system like it belongs there.
I hate that when I’m at my lowest, when I’m cornered by pain or fear or injustice, I hear his voice not mine. I feel his legacy surge through me, and I can’t always stop it before it burns everything I’ve tried so hard to rebuild.
But here’s what I’m learning: that rage didn’t begin with me. It’s not a seed I planted, but a wildfire I was born into. And now I’m trying to contain it, to understand it, to rewrite it. Because I am not him, even when the shadow tries to convince me otherwise.
Maybe healing isn’t about pretending the fire isn’t there but learning how to hold it without letting it consume me.
Maybe being my father’s daughter doesn’t mean I become him.
Maybe it means I end what he never had the courage to.
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