From Fear to Forgiveness: A Journey Home Through ACA

My dad was an alcoholic and a chaotically explosive Army man who had served two tours in Vietnam. Sitting at dinner, you never knew when he might erupt.

One night, when I was 12, I was talking about my sixth-grade teacher, whom I loved. My dad started making fun of her name. I was so hurt that I stood up and yelled, “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”

Before I could blink, he was out of his chair. He grabbed me by the collar and began punching me in the face. I was terrified. He kept going until my 19-year-old sister pulled him off me. I fell to the floor in shock and felt the warmth of pee in my pants. Then he told me to go to my room.

The world became even scarier that day. I committed full-time to people-pleasing, conflict avoidance, and fearing angry people—especially authority figures.

After leaving home, I began a lifelong pursuit of trying to feel okay inside. Workshops, personal development, self-help—anything that might “fix” me.

It wasn’t until I arrived in ACA in my late 50s that something began to change. I came in desperate and terrified.

I found a longtime ACA sponsor, and we began working the Steps. She asked if I had ever read the book my dad had written about Vietnam.

“Are you kidding me? No frickin’ way!”

Then she told me she had read it.

About 18 months in, I reached my Fourth and Fifth Steps. There was anger, tears, and relief in sharing what had happened with my dad, other family members, and sexual trauma outside the family.

Something about forgiveness began there.

The shift wasn’t quick or noticeable. I simply stayed committed to ACA and weekly meetings.

Then one day, maybe two years later, it felt as though a storm had cleared. I felt calm. I believe my Higher Power had done some work after the work I had done.

For the first time, I was open to reading my dad’s book.

As I read, I began seeing him not only as my father, but as a person. I felt compassion for what he had lived through. I even laughed in places and began to see the world through his eyes.

Then he surprised me with a phone call.

He had heard a talk in which I shared that childhood story. He sounded shocked and genuinely remorseful.

“I don’t remember that incident,” he said, “but I’m not saying it didn’t happen.”

My mom piped in, “That was the day of two-martini dinners.”

Dad continued, “I don’t know how you can still love me. I tried to be a good father. I focused on getting you kids a good education, but maybe I was focused on the wrong things.”

He went on with a sincere Hollywood apology—meaning I couldn’t have written it better myself.

But here was the real gift: by then, I didn’t need his apology.

And because I didn’t need it, I could truly receive it.

I had forgiven him.

Today, I talk with my parents every weekend and visit them every month or two. I am their last living child.

Now, as my frail father faces dying, I feel love and compassion for him—not for what happened, but for the man he is now.