“Living with Dad Wasn’t Easy: He Tried to Mold Me into the Perfect Son”

Growing up with my dad was a constant struggle. He had me when he was just 22, hoping that a child would keep my mom from leaving. But their marriage crumbled after only three years, and I was left to navigate life with a father who had very specific ideas about what a son should be.

Dad was a former high school football star who never made it to college ball due to a knee injury. He projected all his unfulfilled dreams onto me. From the moment I could walk, he had me in cleats and tossing a football. By the time I was in elementary school, I was already enrolled in every sports camp imaginable.

“You’re going to be the best,” he’d say, his eyes filled with a mix of hope and desperation. “You’re going to make me proud.”

But I wasn’t like him. I didn’t have the same passion for sports. I loved reading, drawing, and playing the piano—activities that Dad considered “soft” and “unmanly.” He’d often scoff at my interests, saying things like, “Real men don’t play the piano,” or “Books won’t get you anywhere in life.”

Despite his disapproval, I tried to balance both worlds. I’d go to football practice and then sneak off to the library or my room to read and draw. But it was never enough for him. He wanted me to be the star athlete, the popular kid, the son he could brag about to his friends.

High school was the worst. The pressure to excel in sports intensified, and so did Dad’s disappointment. I remember one game where I missed a crucial pass. We lost, and Dad didn’t speak to me for a week. When he finally did, it was to tell me how much I’d let him down.

“You could have been great,” he said, shaking his head. “But you just don’t have what it takes.”

I started to resent him, but more than that, I started to resent myself. I felt like a failure, like I could never live up to his expectations. My grades slipped, and I withdrew from my friends. The only solace I found was in my art and music, but even those felt tainted by his disapproval.

By the time I graduated high school, I knew I had to get away. I applied to colleges far from home, hoping that distance would give me the freedom to be myself. But even then, Dad’s voice echoed in my head.

“Don’t waste your time on useless degrees,” he warned when I told him I wanted to study art. “You’ll end up broke and miserable.”

I went against his wishes and enrolled in an art program anyway. The first year was liberating; I finally felt like I was doing something for myself. But the guilt never fully went away. Every time I picked up a paintbrush or played a note on the piano, I wondered if I was making a mistake.

Dad and I grew more distant as the years went by. We spoke less frequently, and when we did, our conversations were strained and awkward. He never came to any of my art shows or recitals, and I stopped inviting him after a while.

Now, at 25, I’m still trying to figure out who I am outside of his expectations. I’ve had some success as an artist, but there’s always that nagging doubt in the back of my mind—am I really good enough? Did I make the right choices?

Living with Dad wasn’t easy. He tried to mold me into the perfect son, but in doing so, he broke something inside me that I’m still trying to fix. Maybe one day I’ll find peace with who I am and who he wanted me to be. But for now, it’s a daily struggle.