Not Defined by Absence

This story, like so many others, is not unique. It’s as old as time itself, passed down through countless voices. And yet, despite how common it may seem, it still carries an impact that feels very personal. It’s a story about her journey—one shaped by the moments that truly define who she is.

Her story started in the summer of 1987, sparked by a brief, fleeting connection between two young people. She was probably conceived sometime in late November or early December, though the exact details of that beginning are a little unclear, overshadowed by the circumstances that surrounded it.

Her mom was in her early twenties, full of hope, dreams, and that youthful optimism. But when she found out she was pregnant, the weight of it must’ve been overwhelming. She turned to the man she thought she could rely on, only to face rejection. Standing alone at a payphone, she heard those cold words: “Ek ken haar nie, en ek wil ook nie vir haar ken nie.” (I don’t know her, and I don’t want to know her.)

Later, on a beach trip with her cousin, she ran into him again—by chance. That’s when she found out the truth: he was married, with his own family. The betrayal, even from an outside perspective, seemed crushing. But on that day, her mom made the tough choice to keep her. She decided to raise her daughter on her own.

For the next nine months, her mom carried her, enduring not just the physical toll of pregnancy, but the emotional weight of guilt, shame, heartbreak, and fear. Despite everything life had thrown at her, she held her baby close, doing her best to nurture her. At the time, she didn’t understand the depth of her mom’s sacrifices, but looking back, she can see the strength in every choice her mom made.

Before she turned four, her mom remarried. A new chapter began. Her stepdad, who would soon just be known as “Daddy,” adopted her and gave her the sense of belonging she’d always craved. For a while, it felt like enough. Life started to fall into a rhythm, and she finally felt loved.

Then came her brother—the first biological child of her mom and stepdad. That’s when things started to change. A divide began to form, one she couldn’t quite understand, but felt deeply. Her brother and she were different. They didn’t look alike, and that difference became a wound she didn’t know how to heal. She was often teased for her darker skin, called names, and constantly reminded that she didn’t fully belong.

Over time, the words and the laughter—meant to hurt—took root in her heart. She started to believe them. She began feeling ugly, small, and apart from everything. The gap between her and her brother widened, and a part of her grew to resent the family that once felt whole.

Her mom had painted her biological father as a villain—irresponsible, absent, and someone who’d never given her anything. She grew up thinking she was somehow broken, unworthy of his attention. Why hadn’t he ever bothered to acknowledge her?

When she was 13, she found out that her father lived in the same suburb. For a moment, she allowed herself to hope that maybe, just maybe, there could be a chance for connection. She reached out, grasping at that fragile thread of hope. But when they tried to meet, nothing happened. A phone call was arranged. She waited by the phone, every second feeling like an eternity. He never called.

Years passed, and at 19, she left home. When she was 20, she tried again to reach out to her father, now as an adult, hoping they could finally build a relationship. But what she found was a man far more broken than she could have ever imagined—struggling with alcoholism, gambling, and his own unresolved pain. To him, she was just another person to ask for favors, another chance to get something from someone else.

When the relationship turned toxic, she had no choice but to walk away. That was the last time she saw him.

Over the years, her mom and she found peace. She began to understand that her mom, too, had been wounded by him. Her mom had raised her the best way she knew how, trying to protect her from the pain that had marked her own youth. Now, she could see that her mom had given her everything she had.

As time went on, she realized that her worth had never been tied to the absence of her father. She wasn’t defined by his rejection, or by the hurtful words of those who couldn’t see her for who she truly was. She had built a life for herself—one that was vibrant, strong, and full of purpose. And she didn’t become this way because of the wounds she carried, but in spite of them. Every hardship, every scar, became the foundation of her strength.

She is not the sum of her father’s absence. She is here, thriving, not because of what was taken from her, but because of the love she was given and the resilience she found in herself. This is her life—shaped by every struggle, every triumph. And she is enough.