My Dad, Part Two: The Father I Wanted

As I sat down to write this blog, I found myself re-listening to a reading I had with Asha about seven months after my dad died. I wanted to refresh my memory on some of the details, but as I listened, I realized something else.

This story isn’t really about convincing anyone that psychic mediums are real.

For me, it’s about something much bigger.

Throughout this journey, I’ve found myself asking a different question than I used to. Instead of wondering only what happens after we die, I’ve become fascinated by another possibility: Can we continue to grow after we leave this life? Can we gain a deeper understanding of ourselves, the people we loved, and the choices we made?

Whether you believe in mediumship or not, that’s the question I’ve been reflecting on. And for me, this reading became less about evidence and more about understanding someone I loved, someone who also deeply hurt me.

I intentionally waited several months after my dad passed away before scheduling a reading. Most reputable psychic mediums actually recommend waiting close to a year, allowing the initial shock of grief to settle. Grief never really ends, but the suffering changes. That first year is often the most tender, whether you’re actively processing your loss or simply trying to survive it.

Ironically—and I use that word lightly because I don’t really believe in coincidences—I originally had an appointment with Asha earlier that month. She had to cancel, and I remember feeling disappointed because I had been looking forward to our session.

The rescheduled appointment ended up taking place just three days after my father’s funeral.

We had delayed his funeral until the spring when the weather was warmer, so although he had died months earlier, his funeral had only recently taken place. Looking back, the timing feels meaningful.

Before I tell you about that reading, though, I need to give you a little more background about my relationship with my father.

Of course, I loved him.

He brought me into this world, and as a little girl, I adored him. I looked forward to the weekends we spent together and missed him when we were apart.

I don’t think I fully realized how different we were until I was a senior in high school.

My brother and I flew to Florida during spring break to visit my dad and his fairly new wife, Joyce. He had so many rules. Everything felt rigid and controlled. I remember thinking, I’m really glad I didn’t grow up in this house, because my life would have been very different.

Now, to be fair, my childhood wasn’t perfect either. Our home was stable, but my stepfather was a high-functioning alcoholic, and walking on eggshells became a familiar part of life, especially after nights when he had been drinking. But that’s another story for another day.

Back to my dad.

As I moved into my twenties, started working, met my husband, and planned my wedding, my father stayed mostly on the perimeter of my life. He would come and go, but whenever I felt overwhelmed or stressed, he had a habit of laughing things off.

He would say, “Someday, Susan, you’ll understand what real stress looks like.”

Looking back, I realize he wasn’t trying to be cruel.

But in those moments, I didn’t feel supported. I felt dismissed.

Around the time I got married, I began realizing that my father wasn’t the steady father figure I had always hoped he would be. Slowly, disappointment turned into resentment.

Like many daughters, I continued trying to maintain the relationship. Looking back, I probably could have tried harder at times.

But honestly, he didn’t give me much to work with.

Without realizing it, I think I was protecting myself from future disappointment.

My sister, being the oldest, probably had the closest relationship with him. Every Saturday he would call her, and inevitably he’d mention, “I haven’t heard from Susan in a while.”

That always infuriated me.

Instead of calling me directly, he talked about me to someone else. As I grew older and became a parent myself, I occasionally called him out on it.

At the time, I interpreted it as avoidance.

Now, years later, I wonder if it was something else.

As I’ve learned more about who my father was—not just as my dad, but as a human being—I think he simply couldn’t handle the intensity I brought into relationships.

I ask hard questions.

I process emotions.

I go deep.

He didn’t.

For years, I experienced that as rejection.

Over time, and with the help of a therapist and some of my conversations with Asha, something shifted.

I stopped seeing my father as simply a disappointment to me.

Instead, I began wondering if he had spent much of his life feeling like a disappointment to himself.

That’s a very different kind of compassion.

I’ve already shared some of the healing that happened while I sat with him during his final days. But there’s another piece that’s important to this story.

During my thirties and forties, most of what I felt toward my father was anger and frustration. Underneath that anger, though, was hurt.

Around that same time, I was leading Bible studies, and one idea deeply resonated with me.

Our earthly father is just that—our earthly father.

Our true Father is God.

For many years, that belief brought me comfort. I still believe it today, although perhaps from a slightly different perspective than I once did.

But that’s a conversation for another blog.

At the time, I thought I understood my father as well as I ever would.

I was wrong.

Just a few days after his funeral, and then again several months later, I would hear things that challenged almost everything I thought I knew about the man who had been my father.

Note: I neglectedd to mention Asha’s contact information in my previous post. If you are interested in a reading, you can find her at ashasedalia.com and @ashasedaliamedium on Instagram.