“In the end, only three things matter: how much you loved, how gently you lived, and how gracefully you let go of things not meant for you.” – Buddha

Yesterday many people celebrated Father’s Day, while others paid tribute to their departed fathers. But father’s day is not a happy one for all. Many of us have fractured relationships, if any at all, with our fathers. So I thought I would explore the idea of “letting go gracefully” as we move through each day with purpose.

This past week, I read a blog by a woman (we’ll call her Rose) who wrote about going through a difficult time following the loss of her mother, boyfriend and cat all within the past 2 years. She expressed anger and sadness that her father’s abandonment when she was just an infant had something to do with the fact that she’s not married and doesn’t have children. To paraphrase her sentiments, she feels that if she had grown up in a typical family—with a mother and father, and perhaps siblings—that she would be able to have a family herself. But her father’s abandonment, as she put it, marked her destiny.

My own father passed away when he was 46 years old, my current age. I was 10 years old then; the same age that my daughters are today. Although I wasn’t an infant when he died, my father wasn’t a constant figure in my life. He was absent for much of it. When you grow up with one parent, it seems that the whole world has what you don’t have. And, unfortunately, some of us grow up feeling like maybe we don’t deserve a family of our own. We feel like we can never find the missing pieces to our puzzle and so we are incomplete somehow. Happiness is something reserved for a luckier crowd.

My mother was 42 years old when my dad passed away. She never fell in love again. She was also scared of bringing a man into our home. For years, my mother mourned my father. Growing up, I heard many humorous and loving stories about him, how he loved and celebrated things that I did. Her stories contradicted some of my early experiences. Memories of seeing her crying and having to move out of our house lingered in my subconscious, even though the person she was recreating for me seemed like a great father.

When you grow up without a father, either through abandonment or death, it’s easy to idealize them either through our own recollection of events, or by the stories people tell us. Sometimes we are told just the bad stories, too. We believe that had our fathers not left or died, that the domino effect of pain and alienation would not have happened. We put together a fictional character who becomes that missing piece needed in order to be whole.

These core beliefs that we are missing some critical parts needed to be the best version of ourselves couldn’t be more wrong. Some fathers leave early on, while others never even show up. Some, like my father, try fatherhood on and off, but seldom get it right. On weekends when I visited him, he would take me on some interesting outings. In Lima, Peru, where I was born and raised, certain activities were culturally acceptable. My father’s idea of spending time with his child was to take me to the racetrack. He took me to cockfights and bullfights. Occasionally, he would take me to the circus, a silent movie at a museum, or to the beach. He was selfish but fun, and although I knew him for only a short time, he had a big impact on how I experienced the world.

Back in the black and white days of television, and radio soap operas, my father was a comedic writer, producer and actor. I am grateful for having had the opportunity to see him work. He was excellent at his craft. He was always working on a project on his manual typewriter. He would often take me to the television studio (Canal 7) on nights when the show was taped. It was fun to be in a place where I watched people work at something that made people laugh. These are the best memories I have of my dad–because at work–my father was able to be the best version of himself.

It wasn’t in the stars for me to have a father past my 10th birthday, just as some relationships end no matter how tightly we try to hold on to them. Sometimes it takes looking at our own mistakes to understand our parents’ choices. The older I get, the more I understand my parents, especially my mother whom I was blessed to have until 2006 when she died of cancer.

But I didn’t have that chance with my father. There are many unanswered questions to which I will never have answers to. And, that’s ok. I hold on to the good parts. My father’s love, his passion for creativity, his charismatic ways with people. I want to believe that he tried his best to be a good father, but I honestly don’t know. And, that’s ok too because not knowing makes me accept that he was just a man, and not some fictional character I’ve created to use as an excuse for my own shortcomings and failures.

Sometimes the hardest thing to do is to let go, not just of people, but of beliefs and preconceived notions. But we must try to re-write the narrative in our heads that tells us we can’t be at peace with the world. When I feel less than whole, I think of my younger self. She’s 10 years old, skinny with a sad pouty look on her face. I tell her she’s destined to be a great human being, someone capable of loving and caring for others. I tell her she’s courageous, brave and intelligent. Then I hold her hand tightly and never, ever, let go.