Fatherless to Fearless: My Journey to Healing, Identity, and Purpose

Growing up, I always felt like there was a part of my life sketched in pencil—blurry, unfinished, and undefined.
That missing piece was my father.

I remember watching my classmates in primary school run into the open arms of their dads during the Parent-Teachers-Association meetings or prize-giving days. The way the other kids shouted “Daddy!” with unfiltered joy, showing off their certificates or new lunch packs used to sting deep.

For me? I was the girl who smiled through the pain. I laughed louder than necessary, hoping someone would hear the silent ache in my heart.

In Primary 4, we were asked to fill out a form and include the details of our Father’s Name, Tribe, and State of Origin. I stared at that paper, tears welling up in my eyes. My first name was of the Igbo tribe, and my last name was English. I was told I was from Akwa Ibom. Nothing fit. My documents didn’t match my mother’s side either, and my father’s was a ghost town in my mind. Tribe? Confusing. Identity? Blurry. Family tree? I couldn’t trace my roots.

That day, something heavy lodged in my heart. It was anger. Anger at classmates who enjoyed what I couldn’t. Anger at my teachers who called me names I never claimed. Anger at life for writing my story differently.

But it wasn’t just anger alone—there was pain. Pain that seeped into my friendships. Pain that made me defensive, guarded, and far too tough for my young age.

Somewhere along the way, I started leaning into Him—not just in words, but with my whole heart. Slowly, He began to show me some things that became life-changing: My identity doesn’t just come from my bloodlines, it came from Him. I belonged to Him.

Through faith, writing, journaling, and life-giving friendships, He began peeling away the layers of anger, shame, and unanswered questions. He showed me I wasn’t abandoned. I was covered. What I lacked in one area, He filled with love, grace, and a community that has now become my family.

Today, I’m no longer the girl unsure of her roots. I’m the woman rooted in purpose. I speak my truth boldly—not from bitterness, but from a place of healing. I may not have had a father in the way I once dreamed, but I have a Father who never missed a single detail of my life. And that has made all the difference.

If you’re reading this and you’ve felt unseen, unloved, or forgotten—know this: your story can be rewritten. Your identity is not lost. You are loved. You also belong.

Alice Ana