Father’s Day Reflections on Love, Estrangement, and the Quiet Practice of Letting Go

Preface

This personal reflection is shared by Dr. Ivan Zy Lim, founder of the PATH Framework, as a meditation on the intersection of Eastern philosophy and the very human experience of fatherhood and loss.

There are days when silence is louder than thunder.

Father’s Day, for me, is one of them.

I wake early. I sit quietly. No breakfast calls. No text with a heart emoji. No “Dad, remember when…” echoing through my phone. Just the sound of the fan spinning above my desk and the ache that has learned to live in my chest.

Estrangement is a strange thing.

It’s not exactly grief.

It’s not exactly abandonment.

It’s not exactly absence.

It’s all of them, at once.

The Unsaid and the Unseen

Many years ago, after a painful divorce, I made a choice. One that was both agonizing and, at the time, in my eyes, necessary.

My sons were caught between two worlds: mine, and that of their mother. As tensions escalated, I witnessed how contact with me caused them pain, not because of anything I did, but because of what followed. The emotional aftermath. The guilt laid upon them. The confusion stitched into every moment we shared.

And so, I stepped back. Not because I didn’t love them. But because I did.

Confucius once said:

“The superior man, when he stands alone, is watchful over himself.”

I watched. I waited. I respected the role of Heaven and timing. I told myself that one day, when the dust settled, truth would rise. And my sons would understand.

But days became months. Months became years.

And Father’s Day… became something else entirely.

Would I Do It Differently?

This question haunts me like a koan, an unanswerable riddle that Buddhism often places before seekers.

If I could go back in time, would I fight for custody? Would I resist the alienation, the quiet erasure?

Maybe.

But maybe not.

Daoism teaches that resistance creates friction, and that sometimes, in order to protect the stream, we must not dam it, but let it flow.

“To hold and to let go, this is the way of the Dao.”

I let go, believing I was preserving my sons' peace.

But in doing so, I lost something irreplaceable.

Not just time.

But the shared becoming that makes fatherhood what it is.

In Confucianism, the parent-child bond is sacred. Not just in the sense of duty, but in the realm of mutual moral cultivation. The father, in Confucius’ eyes, is a teacher, not only of knowledge, but of patience, character, integrity. The child, in turn, sharpens the father’s heart.

That dance was denied us.

And yet, here’s what age, loss, and quiet meditation have taught me:

Love Never Withdraws. Only Ego Does.

When we are estranged, it is tempting to let bitterness build a shrine in our hearts. To worship what was taken from us. To nurture a quiet rage.

But Buddhism teaches a gentler path.

Suffering, it says, comes not from what is lost, but from our attachment to what we expected.

I expected closeness.

I expected fatherhood to unfold like it does in Hallmark ads.

I expected my sons to know I loved them, even in silence.

But life doesn’t follow scripts. It follows causes and conditions. And karma, in the Buddhist sense, is not punishment, it is pattern.

What I’ve come to see is that I was, at times, also unavailable in spirit. Not just physically absent, but emotionally armored. Shamed. Wounded. Defensive.

There were letters I didn’t send.

Apologies I rehearsed, but never voiced.

Questions I feared the answers to.

Moments when silence wasn’t protection, it was avoidance.

Would I do that differently now?

Yes.

Without hesitation.

If You’re Reading This, Sons

I don’t know if this message will ever find you.

But if it does, here’s what I want you to know:

I loved you every single day.

Not just in memory, but in presence.

In the way I brewed coffee and thought of your smile.

In the way I folded your old drawings, tucked inside my journal like sacred scripture.

In the way I flinched whenever I saw a boy your age, wondering if he laughed like you.

I am sorry for the silence.

I am sorry for the absence.

And I forgive myself for not knowing how to do better back then.

Fatherhood is not something I abandoned.

It’s something I carried. Quietly.

Like a monk carries a lamp through a darkened hall.

A Practice for the Estranged

For those reading this who have also lost touch with your children, by choice, by force, or by fate, I offer you this small, reflective practice rooted in Eastern philosophy:

1. Sit with the ache. Don’t push it away. Pain honors the bond.

2. Write a letter. Even if you don’t send it. Speak from the heart, not the wound.

3. Offer metta (loving-kindness). Buddhist practice teaches us to extend love, even across silence. “May they be safe. May they be free. May they know joy.”

4. Cultivate your virtue. As Confucius reminds us, “To put the world in order, we must first put the nation in order… the family in order… the self in order.”

5. Trust the Dao. Life moves in cycles. What is estranged today may return tomorrow—not as it was, but as something new.

The Road Ahead

Will my sons ever reach out?

I don’t know.

But I’ve left the door open.

I’ve softened. I’ve healed. I’ve grown. I’ve built a life of service, of meaning, of transcultural healing, blending the wisdom of the East with the psychology of the West. Not to forget my wounds, but to make meaning of them.

Every Father’s Day, I bow to Heaven. I whisper a prayer.

And I picture them, not as the boys I lost, but the men they may have become.

If I ever meet them again, I won’t try to explain the past.

I’ll just say:

“I’m here now.

If you’re willing, I’d love to get to know you again.”

At Inner Quest Centre, we honor the full spectrum of human emotion, especially the unspeakable ones. If you are navigating grief, estrangement, or transitions, we welcome you to speak with one of our practitioners.