The Role of Family in Personal Recovery

“You can’t reject someone just because they have a tattoo, Dad.”

“Fine,” he replied, reluctantly.

He had spent hours sorting through my potential dating app matches, removing them as we worked together. As he sifted through profiles, he asked, “What is cuffing season?” I laughed and explained, “It’s when people want to cuddle during the cold months.” He diligently jotted down names from his favorite profiles in a notebook, favoring golfers and antique enthusiasts, his two hobbies. My father’s love language is logistics.

Two months earlier, my plans for a shared home and possibly having a child had vanished when my boyfriend decided to “take a break.” We withdrew from the house contract. It was November, and my parents proposed I stay with them for the rest of the year. So, I moved out of my boyfriend’s home in South Carolina to my parents’ in Florida. Although grateful, moving into the guest room felt regressive. I was mourning not just the relationship but also the places and people I cherished. Initially planning to stay until Thanksgiving, I considered getting an Airbnb for the interim. My dad had other ideas.

We had bonded since I was a child. At three, he took me to Krispy Kreme for doughnuts. We discussed my little-kid problems and later his layoff and my divorce at 34. During early visits, helping me drink chocolate milk, he spilled it on my favorite overalls. “She spilled it all over herself,” he would later say with a mischievous laugh.

Now, we discussed my heartbreak. “I thought he would do anything for you,” Dad said about my ex. “Instead, he did nothing.” Though lamenting didn’t change events, Dad got to work. I joined him in Mission Control, his office. Our plan was to find me a new home nearby to support my aging parents and spend more time together. When I nearly leased an apartment over a Pilates studio, Dad insisted we check the noise first. The instructor’s commands penetrated the floor above. I would have lost my mind.

We visited another apartment and my face lit up; Dad looked expectant. I felt confident to say, “This is the one.” This plan arose from my own desire, not built around an ex. Dad accompanied me to meetings with a financial advisor, ensuring my financial security through uncertain times. My true home was with my parents, in their support and our rituals.

Dad continued to offer insights as we tested dating apps. “These dating apps are awful, Whitney,” he laughed. “No kidding… At least I have you,” I replied, sincerely meaning it. Mission Control succeeded when I no longer needed it, helping move my life forward until I regained confidence. By February, I relocated nearby. I hung pictures, found favorite coffee shops, and felt eager for the future.

I missed the dogs waiting to go to the office but felt optimistic thanks to my parents’ support. Geographic distance had strained our closeness over the years, yet this void let their love rush in anew. I call Dad some mornings to share happenings or seek guidance. On Valentine’s Day, I met someone new — someone whose profile I selected independently. He has a tattoo.

Whitney Hinds Coble is a lawyer, trauma-informed coach, and memoir writer based in St. Petersburg, Florida. She is completing a Memoir Writing Certificate at Stanford University and is writing Held, a memoir about trauma, relationships, and the people who guide us home.