They say that daughters are copies of their fathers. That first daughters are reflections of the man their father is. They’re right.

I find my father in the anger that consumes me when things do not go my way. I see his reflection in the kindness I extend to others but not myself. I hear his words in my ears when I point a finger at the mirror, admonishing myself. I feel his fears when I am alone, the fear that no matter what I do, I will never be enough. 

As someone who swore she would never be like her father, the realization that the same blood that flowed through his veins flows through mine was earth-shattering. You learn that blood doesn’t only carry DNA; it carries hopes, fears, and the stubbornness that your family is famous for. 

I love him. He taught me all there is to know about men. He told me I could be everything I wanted to be. He showed me that in a world filled with men who would undermine me, I should show that I truly am my father’s daughter. 

I hate him. The cruelty I learned to wield against the world was first wielded against me by my father. The acidity that is my friend was first my foe. Burned by the fire I now call my own. 

I feel my father in the straightening of my back when someone undermines me. I hear him in the whispers of avoidance in relationships. I hear his voice telling me not to depend on anybody, and I listen. Oh, I listen. 

They say daughters are reflections of their fathers. I am a reflection of mine. And I am going to be 10x the man he ever was.