My Father Called Me a Curse: A Daughter’s Painful Truth

I’ve often heard that fathers are their daughters’ first heroes, the protectors, the ones who build their daughters’ self-esteem with love and encouragement. But my reality was different. My father was not my hero—he was my greatest tormentor, the one whose words crushed me more than any external struggle ever could.

Growing up, I longed for his approval, his warmth, or just a simple acknowledgment that I was enough. Instead, I was met with words so harsh they still echo in my mind, piercing through any progress I’ve made. “You’re a disgrace,” he’d say, “a failure. What do you even have in you that any man would want to marry you? You’ll never amount to anything.”

I was 13 when he first told me that my birth was a mistake. “A daughter,” he sneered, “a curse… a burden I’ll have to carry my whole life.” I remember staring at him, trying to make sense of his words. It was a Sunday evening; the smell of dinner lingered in the air, and my mother was in the kitchen. She didn’t hear him—or maybe she pretended not to. That day, a piece of me broke, and I’ve never been able to put it back together.

I wasn’t allowed to falter—not in academics, not in chores, not in any area of life. Yet, no matter how hard I tried, his approval never came. If I scored a 95%, he’d ask why I didn’t get 100. If I failed to cook a perfect meal, he’d mock me, asking how I expected to survive or make anyone happy. “You’re nothing but a liability,” he’d say, laughing bitterly as though I were some cruel joke life had played on him.

But what hurt the most wasn’t the impossibly high standards. It was the insults aimed at my character. The day he raised questions about my integrity was the day my heart shattered completely. I was 19 and had been out late with friends, working on a group project. When I got home, he didn’t ask why I was late or whether I was okay. Instead, he unleashed a tirade: “What were you doing out this late? Do you even care about this family’s reputation? Girls like you… who knows what they’re up to?”

I’ve been called many things by my own father: shameless, characterless, worthless. He’d often say he wished he had a son instead of me. He made it clear that I’d never be good enough simply because I was born a girl. “A son would carry my name forward,” he’d say. “What good is a daughter except as a burden we have to marry off?”

These words weren’t just words; they were daggers that scarred my soul. They turned every ounce of self-love into self-doubt. They made me question my worth, not just as a daughter but as a human being. For years, I battled the voice in my head that repeated his cruel words, trying to replace them with kinder ones of my own.

People say forgiveness is the path to healing, but how do you forgive someone who has relentlessly attacked the core of who you are? How do you forgive a father who’s supposed to love you unconditionally but instead made you feel unworthy of existence? I don’t have the answer to that yet.

Even now, as an adult, when I’ve built a life for myself and proven—at least to the world—that I am not a failure, his voice lingers. It’s in the moments of self-doubt, the fear of never being enough, the crippling anxiety of making a mistake. I’ve accomplished things he said I never would. I’ve built a career, found people who love me for who I am, and even begun to believe that I’m deserving of happiness. But his words still sit like a shadow over my triumphs, reminding me of the wounds I’ve yet to heal.

To the fathers who might read this: your words have power. They can either lift your daughters to unimaginable heights or bury them under the weight of your expectations and judgments. I remember hearing stories of fathers encouraging their daughters to dream big, telling them they could achieve anything. How different would my life have been if I had heard those words instead?

And to the daughters who’ve lived my reality: you are not alone. Your worth isn’t defined by the pain inflicted on you. You are so much more than the cruel words that have been thrown your way.

As for me, I’m still learning to love the person he couldn’t. I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive him, but I do know one thing: I refuse to let his words define me any longer. My life, my worth, my existence—they’re mine to reclaim.