Family Therapy & My Relationship with My Dad

When I was in my early 20s, I decided to focus on myself and my relationships, as I simultaneously started a career as a writer, journalist, and teacher. I got into Zen and Tibetan Buddhism; found a terrific therapist; and got to work forging a relationship with my dad. I don’t mean to make this sound neat, easy, and planned—it wasn’t. It was painful and confusing.

My father, who passed away in 2017, was an attorney at a large law firm, and I didn’t see him very much when I was younger. He traveled for work—a few days out of every week—and, when he was home, he was busy, stressed out, and removed.

I came home one day when I was in my early teens and his den, where he drank beer and watched television on the weekends, smelled like cigarette smoke. There was an ash tray filled with butts. My dad told me he lost a case—his first one ever—and he was worried about his job.

I didn’t know my dad very well until I confronted him in my 20s. He wasn’t experienced with emotional intimacy; his self-worth came from professional achievement. And he didn’t have a lot of relationships—my dad wasn’t close with his one sister, my late Aunt Helen, he had almost no individual friends, and he didn’t seem to have the energy or interest to get to know me, his youngest child.

So, when I was 23, I confronted my dad and asked him to tell me about his life. I can’t blame him for not seeming to like my efforts—I was aggressive and not terribly skilled at emotional intimacy, myself. To his credit, my father cooperated with my attempt to get to know him, even if I sometimes berated him for his shortcomings. One day, he told me he was sorry. “For what?” I asked him. “I don’t think I was a very good father,” he said. This was a powerful moment, a real break-through. A flash of openness.

During this time, my dad answered questions about his childhood and agreed to spend time with me. We went to movies and museums together. My dad and I had a lot in common: we both liked spicy food, Mel Brooks and Woody Allen movies, and we liked to talk about politics.

I didn’t approach my dad in the best way; I was relentless. But I’m proud of myself for having made the effort and for working on our relationship. We didn’t have a family therapist to help us—I didn’t even know that was an option at the time—but we did have the necessary ingredients to improve our relationship: we were motivated and willing to put in the time.

My dad died when he was about to turn 77 and I was 42, so I got close to 20 years of feeling pretty close with him. I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

I think about my experience with my dad a lot when I’m working with couples and family clients. It can be so messy and confusing to address challenging aspects of relationships. The challenges never go away—at least they didn’t with me and my dad—but they can become more workable. What I call ‘hot spots’—areas where we conflict with loved ones—don’t disappear, but they become less hot.

It’s a funny phrase, to ‘work on a relationship.’ The way that one works on a PhD dissertation, a jump shot, or a home improvement project. You tinker and fix; you address the problem areas. Building something takes time and patience as well as faith that it will get better with effort. That’s what couples and family therapy is all about, I think.