Sunday 26th July 2025 - Regrets and Reconciliation

Sha wrote this post nearly 8 months ago, but given the intensely personal subject matter, she waited until she was in a better mental space before posting it. 

Counselling. Chapter Two: Regrets and reconciliation

This post isn’t my usual—a festival recap, a wheelchair tale, Ellyllon mischief. Instead, I’m reflective this Sunday, sharing a long-held truth.

C, my counsellor, says what we can't say aloud needs another outlet. Writing is mine. So here goes.

My biggest regret in life is this: I never really gave my biological father a chance; he never really knew me, my husband, or my children. And now I never can.

Kev, my dad, raised me as his own. He gave me unwavering love and remains one of the most important men in my life—I love him deeply. He’s my Dadio; words can’t express my devotion. I know he would give his blessing for me to share this. When I learned of Chris’s illness, Kev was the first I turned to for advice, and, as always, he gave direct, unbiased guidance. He may never know how much this means to me. Thank you, Dad, for being you—I love you more than anything.

The weight of other people’s stories

We all inherit from those around us. Sometimes it’s a nose; sometimes, a habit of tearing up at adverts. But sometimes we inherit their history, pain, or perspective. As a child, it’s hard to distinguish another person’s story from the truth.

I grew up hearing things about my biological father, Chris, that frightened me. I believed them—why question those I trusted? So I kept my distance. Years passed; that distance hardened into a wall.

C helped me understand that everyone's feelings are valid, based on their own truths. The people who told me those things weren’t lying. They shared their truth, and that’s ok. The result is still heartbreaking.

Too late, and not enough time

When my step-sister Claire told me Chris had terminal lung cancer, I felt a sudden heaviness settle in me—a mix of sadness and responsibility. Paul and I sat together in quiet conversation, absorbing the news. We talked to the kids, aware of the gravity, trying to gauge their feelings. Gradually, with care, we decided to let them meet him virtually if they wished. FaceTime, just a few calls sadly. The Welsh side of the family, blurry before, finally came into view.

I was so proud of my kids. There was pressure from elsewhere not to do it, but they still gave Chris their time. They were brilliant. All of them.

But I’d left it too late. I kept telling myself I’d go and visit him soon, but soon kept slipping further away. Then the cancer spread to his brain, his health deteriorated quickly, and FaceTimes stopped. Suddenly, I was faced with a now-or-never decision. The urgency hit hard, bringing on a rush of regret and a need to act, all at once.

I went to Claire’s and visited several times over a few days. He was barely lucid and thought I was my daughter. I was still afraid. Claire stayed in the room with me at first, but the man I’d feared was just a frail, dying old man in the front room of his childhood home.

He didn’t feel like a stranger. In that moment, as I finally sat with him, the long-standing distance suddenly fell away. That realisation brought both comfort and surprise—I can’t fully explain how the fear evaporated, but it did.

What he said to me

I don't really know how this moment happened. He held out his hand, and I found myself apologising for the horrible things I said to him in the past when he tried to get in touch with me, for staying away, for letting my fear decide for me.

He told me, between breaths, that he was proud of me, that he had always loved me, and that he was happy I had Kev—my beloved Papa—because he seemed a good man.

That hit me somewhere I didn’t expect. Right in the chest, and I felt my stomach drop like when you are on a rollercoaster.

And then, almost to himself, he murmured: "ahhh Sha you never know we might get some more time if we're lucky"

I sobbed; in that moment, shame replaced fear. I held his hand, he pulled me close—thin skin over bone—and words came naturally. I told him I loved him, and I meant it. I reassured him there was nothing to worry about. I held him until he slept.

He never woke up after that. When I learned he was gone, I felt a confusing mix of grief and relief wash over me. He slipped away quietly a few days later, and I was left sorting through everything I still felt, knowing I'd changed during our final moments together.

What I’ve learnt since

At the funeral, I heard stories from Claire; she was so close to Chris, his friends, and people who’d known him for years. Apparently, we are very alike. We look alike. I share some of his traits. That’s both comforting and painful.

He was young when he and my mother had me. Their relationship broke down when I was barely a year old, as young relationships do. There were mistakes and hurt on both sides. He could have tried harder to be in my life, but chose not to — maybe he thought that was best. I don’t know. I never got to ask. I only grew up knowing one side of the story.

That’s what I have to sit with now. Not blame — just loss, and a grief some people said I wasn’t entitled to, because 'he was practically a stranger.' But he was my father.

Those words still sting. Some things said before and after Chris died were cruel and unforgivable. I have found my own peace. Protecting my mental health requires closing some doors.

Why I’m sharing this now

This has been locked inside me for a long time. ‘C’, my counsellor, and I never return to it in sessions. It burns too much; the tears still flow when I think of the relationship lost. But I’ve been doing the work on myself, my anxiety, and the things I can’t say aloud. Part of that work is letting this breathe a little.

I'm not sharing this for sympathy, but because someone else may face a similar decision—unsure about reaching out to someone complicated by history.

If there’s any chance, take that leap—go. Don’t wait as I did. Don’t leave it too late. Go while you can hear their voice and have the honest conversation you didn’t know you needed.

I made it—just. Those hours at his bedside will stay with me forever: the grief, guilt, the what-ifs. He knew I was there. He knew I loved him. That must be enough, because it’s all there is.

I'd like to thank my Dad, Paul, Claire, and my wonderful kids for helping me find the courage to say hello and such a swift goodbye.

Rest gently, Chris. 💜

With love,

Sha 💜