Father's Day is this Sunday. Which means that starting right about now, your inbox, your TV, and every store you walk into will be wall-to-wall "World's Best Dad."

If that lands sweetly for you, I'm genuinely glad. And if it lands like a stone, I want to hand you something a few days early: permission.

You don't have to perform this week. You don't have to find the perfect card, or fake the perfect brunch face, or explain to anyone why this holiday is complicated for you.

You get to feel exactly what you feel, and you don't owe anyone a performance. Including me.

If you find yourself a little raw this week, you are in very good company. Mine, for starters.

If you feel like it, hit reply and tell me in one word how this week usually feels for you. My team and I read every single one.

And because permission is good but a plan is better, I made you something practical: a page full of ways to do this Father's Day differently, on your terms.

Skip it entirely, celebrate a person who actually showed up for you, gather your chosen family, or spend the day loving on yourself. It's all here.

And this week, for the first time, I want to tell you my whole story. In a few parts, between now and Sunday, because something happened this year that I've waited decades to tell you about.

It starts tomorrow, in a drugstore card aisle.

I see you, pal. Take care of you,

Terri

P.S. If you only do one thing this week, take the permission. If you want a second thing, the page of ideas is here: Father's Day, your way.

Do you ever find yourself standing in the card aisle before Father's Day, searching for a card that doesn't exist?

This used to be me, every year.

I'd stand there reading message after message, trying to find one that fit. "Dad, you were always there for me." "You taught me everything." "Thanks for always cheering me on."

Um…nope. None of them was accurate for me. Not even close.

What I needed was a card that said, "I think it's a world record that we lived in the same house and only exchanged 50 words by the time I was 13." (I'm not exaggerating.)

That card does not exist. So I'd settle for one with a pretty picture and a blank inside, then struggle to find words that felt honest without being hurtful. My sisters and I would chip in on golf-related gifts because golf was pretty much all we knew about him.

If any of this feels familiar, you are not alone, and what you're carrying has a name.

A father wound is a psychological and emotional injury from growing up with a father (or father figure) who was absent, abusive, controlling, or not emotionally attuned or available to you. Mine was there physically, but checked out emotionally. And here's something many of us don't realize: you can have a father wound even if your dad was, by all outside appearances, a good one. More on that this weekend.

(And if the thought of this Sunday already has your stomach in a knot, the page I shared yesterday has ways to do the day differently, on your terms. It's here whenever you need it.)

For most of my life, I had a theory about why my father wasn't interested in me. I believed it for decades, until my mother told me something in my mid-thirties that changed the whole story.

I'll tell you what it was tomorrow.

As always, take care of you,

Terri

P.S. There's a reason I'm sharing all of this the week of Father's Day. It involves my new book, and an invitation to spend an afternoon with me (and a virtual room full of women who get it) this October. More tomorrow. (Can't wait? It's all here.)

Yesterday, I told you there was a theory I carried for decades about why my father wasn't interested in me. Here it is.

(Missed yesterday? Search your inbox for [2/6], and you'll be caught up in two minutes.)

I'm the youngest of four daughters. My father was a basketball star, a guy's guy, a workaholic, and a high-functioning alcoholic. Growing up, I had this feeling that I was a disappointment to him. I was his last chance at a son, and instead, he got me. Wah wah.

So that became my story: he wanted a boy, and I was the wrong gender.

Kids do this, by the way. We create stories to make sense of why a parent doesn't seem to care about us, and we usually blame ourselves, because it's less painful to believe there's a reason. For me, being the wrong gender was easier to live with than the alternative.

Over time, the story evolved: if I become incredibly successful, my father will love me. (Hello, ambition!) I spent decades achieving and succeeding, partly to prove I was better than any stupid son he could have had. And it worked, sort of. I made it to the top of the heap in my entertainment career. The only problem? The feeling I was chasing never arrived.

Then, in my mid-thirties, my mother told me something that changed everything: my father never said one word about wanting a boy. Not one. He never expressed any disappointment about having daughters.

The story I'd built my worth around wasn't even true. The truth was harder: he simply wasn't interested. Not in me, not in my sisters. As Elie Wiesel put it, the opposite of love isn't hate. It's indifference.

Here's what I want you to take from this.

A father wound is, at its core, a worthiness wound.

It's where many of us learned we needed to be different, better, or more accomplished to deserve love. But your father's inability to see your worth never defined your worth. His limitations were about him.

Believing that took me years of therapy. And it started with a homework assignment from my therapist, Bev, that I really did not want to do.

I'm saving that story for Sunday, for Father's Day itself, because it belongs there. Tomorrow, I have something different to tell you first. Something I've waited a long time to say to you.

As always, take care of you,

Terri

P.S. Here's the invitation I mentioned yesterday. My new book, Father Wound, comes out on October 27. Three days before that, on October 24, I'm hosting a live virtual retreat: an afternoon of healing together, in real time, with a room full of women who get it. You don't need the book to come (it won't even be out yet). Your ticket, a $297 value, is free when you preorder the book for about $30. Click here to preorder and claim your free retreat ticket.

Every June for years, I've written you some version of the same message: if Father's Day is hard, you're not alone, and here are some ways to get through it.

This year is different. Today I get to tell you why.

But first, tomorrow.

Maybe tomorrow you'll be gritting your teeth through a barbecue, playing the role and silently grieving what you didn't have.

Maybe you have no father to call, and every commercial and tribute post stings in a way you don't talk about.

Or maybe you'll be celebrating a father you genuinely love. He was there. He provided. He'd drive over on Monday to help you move if you asked. And still, something in you recognizes the patterns: the perfectionism, the over-functioning, the inner critic who is louder than anyone in your actual life.

I want to say this directly, especially to her: you can love your father and still acknowledge that something was missing. You can be grateful for what he gave you and grieve what he couldn't give. Loving him and healing yourself are not in conflict. Two things can be true.

Now, here's why this year is different.

After years of circling this topic, in blog posts, in workshops, in nearly thirty years of clinical practice, and in my own decades of therapy, I finally wrote the book. Father Wound comes out on October 27. It carries my story, and it carries the voices of more than 1,000 women in this community who answered my survey and trusted me with theirs. In a very real way, it's our book.

And on October 24, before the book is even out, I'm gathering with as many of you as I can for a live virtual retreat. An afternoon of healing together, in real time: meditation, reflection, sharing, witnessing each other through it. Nobody will have the book yet, and nobody needs it. When women gather, magic happens, and I have witnessed it more times than I can count.

When you preorder the book (about $30), your retreat ticket, a $297 value, is free. Claim yours here.

And I haven't forgotten: I still owe you the story about Bev's homework assignment. It's coming tomorrow, on Father's Day itself, because of all the stories I could tell you, that one belongs to the day. It's the one I most want you to read.

As always, take care of you,

Terri

P.S. The short version, in case you're a skimmer (no judgment): preorder Father Wound for about $30, get a $297 retreat ticket free. Claim yours here.

It's Father's Day. However the day looks at your house, I want to spend it telling you the story I promised.

When I finished my Master's at NYU, I wanted my father at my graduation.

I also knew he'd say no. He had retired to Florida, he hated New York City, and he didn't love to travel. So I told my therapist, Bev, that I wasn't going to bother asking him.

She gave me homework anyway: ask. "It's not about whether he comes or not," she said. "It's about you being honest about how you feel."

I flew down and visited him for three days. I didn't find the courage until he was literally driving me back to the airport.

"Hey, uh, Dad? I have an extra ticket to graduation at the end of May, if you're around and want to come."

"I really can't, Ter. I can't deal with New York City."

"That's okay. It's not a problem."

"Ugh, here comes the guilt."

(Dude, I haven't guilted you a day in my life! And TRUST ME, I COULD HAVE!)

"No, Dad, I understand it's a lot. But you're my only father. I want you to know my relationship with you is important. Mom will be there, my sisters will be there, but nobody can replace you."

I was shaking and sweating profusely. It was the most honest I had ever been with him.

At the airport, he hugged me goodbye longer than usual. And afterward, something shifted between us. He started sending cards. "Happy Spring! Love, Dad." From a man of very few words, that was practically a sonnet. We began having deeper conversations than we'd ever had.

That hug at the airport was the last time I saw my father alive. A few months later, in November, he died suddenly of a massive heart attack.

I'm so grateful I asked when I did, because I had no regrets. And Bev was right: my healing was in the asking. Not in his answer. He said no, and the healing happened anyway, because there is something profound about learning you can negotiate for your needs regardless of what the other person says.

My father never became a different man. He never transformed into the warm, emotionally present dad I longed for. And I healed anyway. That's what I want to leave with you today, of all days: healing a father wound doesn't require your father's participation, his apology, or his presence. It only requires yours.

Happy Father's Day, however you're holding it. I see you, pal.

Tomorrow, I'll tell you exactly what we're going to do about all of this. Together.

As always, take care of you,

Terri