The First Time I Cried in Front of My Daughter
And what I learned about love.
What happened, Dad?
Says my two-year-old daughter.
She never saw me cry before, and this is not a sobbing; it is an uncontrolled flood of tears.
I kneel to the floor and hold her tight. I stutter: “Nothing, Honey.”
What happened, Dad?
She’s not even 2,5, and she can already say many things, but this is all the can come up with, while her innocent big brown eyes show her a new, unexplored side of her father.
She seems calm, just a little confused.
What happened, Dad?
“Dad has lost someone…” — I can’t finish the sentence, at the first attempt, as a burst of tears takes over.
“Dad has lost someone very important to him”
Nobody died. But someone whom I love deeply slammed a door straight into my face. A door that, she says, should never be opened again.
I will call her “Sathi.”
My whole sense of worth is being challenged. The people I love generally think I bring value and joy to their lives. Some of them admire me, ask for advice, they call me for conversations, and even for inspiration during dark times.
How can someone I love so deeply prefer to have me completely out of her life? Am I so unworthy? I gave her so much love, in all the ways I was capable of.
Painful thought. But cognitively, I know, that’s my ego speaking. I am well aware that I caused Sathi suffering throughout our relationship, and I could never meet some of her essential needs.
But I cannot comprehend how she doesn’t see all the good that we had, our idiotic jokes, the conversations about psychology, philosophy, and the depths of what it means to be human. The fantastic sex — often a truly spiritual experience for me — with all the kinky things we explored and discovered together. The hugs, the dinners, the laughter. The gifts, the travels, the spiritual connection.
I certainly know the premises for a relationship of any sort with her would have to be different from what they were before, for us to be both fulfilled and satisfied. But that doesn’t seem to be an option, not now, not ever.
In the last message I sent her, I wrote: “I wanna take the time to become the person you wish I were the first time we met.”
But Sathi may never get to experience that. And this is an excruciating thought.
I’m hugging my daughter; my tears drop on her silky cheeks, and — suddenly — I realize that the transformation into the new person I’m becoming as a result of this loss is something I owe to myself and my future partners.
In my last text message to Sathi, I wrote that I will always love her unconditionally. And I mean it: my door will always be open for her, as she holds such a remarkable, Haute Bohemian-designed place in my heart.
But a few hours after I sent that message, I realized that loving unconditionally is not about being always there for someone; it’s about the quality of your “being there.”
Unconditional Love is about bringing the best of you to another human being in ways that enrich each other’s life. It’s about being “all-in” when you are there. And this is something I never managed to offer her, and when I thought I was ready for it, it was too late.
Sadly, in some circumstances, loving someone may even entail staying out of that person’s life.
It is overwhelmingly painful to acknowledge that she and I may never be connected again in this life. But now, at least, I can empathize with her choice.
She may never get to know the person I’m becoming — and that’s OK.
I will be a more authentic, conscious, and empathic partner. I will embody all the lessons I’ve learned, and that’s how I’m going to honor the Love we shared.
What happened, Dad?
The world has turned upside down, Honey. And so has Dad. And that’s why, for once, I am the one crying.
Goodbye, Sathi.
