He passed away 2.5 years ago.

I come from a family shaped by domestic violence, where alcohol addiction was almost a daily presence. And it came from him – my dad.

Luckily, my mum divorced him when I was 13, and he moved towns, then countries. Soon after, we moved too. For a few years I had no contact with my dad, but I visited my grandma and my godmother (my dad’s mum and sister) fairly regularly. I loved my dad’s side of the family and felt more loved and appreciated by them than by my mum’s side.

The first time my parents saw each other since the divorce was at my wedding, fifteen years later. We were all worried and unsure how it would go, but it was fine. My parents even started talking, and as the years passed, they’d spend some “unsupervised” time alone together. My dad would spend time at my older sister’s home, helping with the kids.

He still had relapses with alcohol, but when he was sober, it was good. But when he was drunk, all the old memories would come flooding back, and I hated him with every cell in my body.

Then came the moment he joined AA. He got sober for longer, and found joy and purpose in helping others do the same.

My dad had been a police officer and also held a law degree. He served as an officer during the Communist regime and saw – and was part of – some terrible things. My mum, later said he used to be a sensitive man, but that job changed him and took his empathy away. No one talked about PTSD then.

While studying yogic philosophy, meditation, and trauma, I slowly started to see and understand what my dad had gone through internally. Alcohol was his way of numbing. My mum couldn’t stand it – it triggered her own childhood trauma – so she responded with verbal attacks, and my dad’s response became physical.

They were both young, in constant survival mode, triggering each other’s wounds, not knowing anything different. It took me many long years of having my own family, learning about my own triggers, and building self-compassion, before I could look at my parents through the eyes of compassion – and see them for who they really were: wounded, lost children in adults’ bodies. Once I did, I truly felt love toward them. And at nearly 40, I could finally say and feel that I loved them.

Three years ago, my dad was diagnosed with throat cancer. He didn’t tell my sister or me as he didn’t want to burden us. Once I found out, I packed my bags and flew on a one-way ticket back to Poland to look after him while he recovered from radiation and chemo. It was a powerful and beautiful time. He couldn’t believe I’d come just for him. He was truly touched and grateful for every moment we spent together. Me too. I could feel his love for me.

He was recovering well, and was going to go stay at my godmother’s for Christmas, so I flew back to my family in Australia. He never made it out of the hospice. He died a couple of days after Christmas.

I flew back to help with the burial as I needed this time of closure. My sister told me then, “He was the only person who never judged me” – and I felt exactly the same. He loved us unconditionally. When he got truly sober, he always wanted to help as much as we would let him.

Now, older, after years of spiritual self-development and practice, I can clearly see our souls’ “contracts.” He was here to drag me through hell in my childhood, so that later I could take it – not as my default story, but as an opportunity to grow. So I did. Instead of staying in victimhood, I broke the chain of numbing and abuse in my family, bringing compassion and forgiveness – and eventually, they felt love too.

This is the work I do with the women I sit with now, in different forms. So many of us carry a story we didn’t choose – a parent’s pain, a childhood survival pattern, a nervous system wired for threat before we ever had a say in it. And so many high-achieving women try to think their way past it: read the books, understand the psychology, intellectually “get it,” and wonder why they still feel the same tightness in their chest.

It took me nearly a decade and a body, not just a mind, to get from understanding my parents to actually feeling love for them. That gap – between knowing and embodying – is where I spend most of my time now, with the women I work with. It’s not fast, and it’s not linear. But it’s the only path I’ve found that actually changes something.

It’s my dad’s birthday today. He would be 71.

Happy heavenly birthday, Dad. I love you.