You can do one of three things with your pain: run from it (denial, compartmentalization), drown in it (rumination) or make friends with it. Making friends with your pain means letting it sit next to you, and starting a conversation with it. This internal dialogue might sound something like:
You: Welcome, old friend. I remember meeting you at the airport nearly 60 years ago. You came rushing into my life, but I pushed you away. I thought I could get rid of you by plowing forward, creating a more stable family than the one I had and excelling at my career. But I’m tired of running from you. So sit with me. Maybe I can learn something from you after all?
Your pain: Perhaps I can help you see that your father’s actions weren’t a reflection of how worthy of love you were, but instead of his inability to properly love. That must have been very hard to understand at 8 years old. You deserved to have a loving, present father. And while you wish you had been able to control your anger with your children, I can see how anyone with your background might have struggled in this way. I hope you’ll show yourself some compassion and consider that exploring this now gives you the opportunity to relate to yourself and others differently. I’m not here to hurt you — I’m here to help you move forward.
Engaging in this kind of dialogue and acknowledging the context in which you lost your temper will help you to feel less ashamed and take action. That action might include working with a therapist to make meaning of your childhood through an adult lens, gain tools for self-regulation in your relationships and work through your grief about your own childhood and that of your children.
You can also begin a dialogue with your children — not to seek their forgiveness, but to offer a sincere apology and invitation to learn how you can be there for them. You could start with something like:
I want to talk to you about something important. I now recognize that, during your childhood, I responded to situations with anger that was disproportionate and hurtful. The incident with the $10 — and other moments like it — were never truly about the mistake, but about my own unresolved pain and fears, which I am working through. I’m deeply sorry I didn’t recognize this earlier, and I apologize for the times I made you feel scared, small, criticized or unworthy. I’m not asking for anything from you, but the opposite — if I can be there for you, as the father you need now, or can help heal something between us, that will be my top priority.
I don’t know what your current relationships with your children are like, or what they will do with this. But the point is less about their response and more about transforming regret from a source of torment into a new opportunity to be the best possible father to them, in whatever way they feel comfortable, and also the best father you never had to yourself. The most profound healing often comes from acknowledging that we are not defined by our worst moments, but by our capacity to learn, grow and repair.
Want to Ask the Therapist? If you have a question, email askthetherapist@nytimes.com. By submitting a query, you agree to our reader submission terms. This column is not a substitute for professional medical advice.
