Father’s Day: The Absence and the Anchor

Father’s Day arrives every June, celebrated with toolkits, grilling gear, and outdoor activities. However, behind the tough branding lies a deeper story, one that often begins with absence.

From a psychological lens, days like these can evoke what clinicians call “anniversary reactions,” which are emotional responses triggered not by a specific event, but by a patterned return to something once felt. For some, Father’s Day feels solid and warm. For others, it surfaces questions, grief, or longing. These reactions are not always conscious. The nervous system remembers what the calendar stirs.

The Psychology of Masculine Absence

My father became a father at a young age. He was separated from my mother early on and spent much of his life struggling to find stability, grappling with addiction, personal loss, and disconnection. His story begins with his own ache: he never had a good relationship with his biological father. However, his mother remarried during his adolescence, and he loved his stepfather deeply. That love shaped him, and in turn, shaped me.

My father wasn’t around much when I was growing up. In fact, he lost custody of my brother and me after our mom died, and his sister raised us with her own children. The impact of that absence echoed throughout my development. From the attachment theory perspective, a child forms internal working models of safety and self-worth based on early interactions with caregivers. When a caregiver is inconsistent, emotionally unavailable, or absent, it can lead to insecure attachment. This attachment style is often marked by anxiety, avoidance, or confusion in later relationships. For me, it left a subtle but persistent sense of having to do everything on my own, of being overly self-reliant while quietly longing for support.

Healing from this kind of early rupture requires more than intellectual insight. It requires emotional repatterning. It’s not just about understanding what was missing, but learning to receive what is here now: safety, support, and presence in forms I never knew how to trust before.

The Men Who Anchored Me

In the absence of one anchor, others arrived. My grandfather, my father’s stepfather, was a steady, gentle presence. I was his first grandchild, and I’ve been told that when he met me the day after I was born, he held me in the palm of one hand. I fully believe from that moment on, I had him wrapped around my finger. He would wipe soot on my forehead on Christmas Eve and tell me that he saw Santa kiss me after he dropped off presents. He built me a swing set and a playhouse in his backyard. He built bonfires and roasted my marshmallows as I ran around the yard catching fireflies. He took me to the deer refuge and let me feed the deer with my tiny hands. When I purchased my first car and took my first solo road trip from Tennessee to Michigan to visit my grandparents, my grandfather took my car to his mechanic the next day to get a full inspection. He was worried for my safety on that road trip, but he didn’t lecture or impose; instead, he taught and guided. Most importantly, he showed up. That's what I remember most: his presence. The kind that never asks for recognition. The kind that just is.

Fast forward to my adult life, after I joined the Navy, I met a man named Jeremy. We met at my first command, and he became my mentor when I found him at my second command. He was one of the most impactful male figures during that period of my life. When most men I had met in the military had alternate motives, Jeremy was different. He was quick-witted, disarmingly funny, and endlessly generous. He nicknamed me “Gimpy” when I was in a straight-leg cast after tearing my ACL, MCL, and meniscus. Even when I was physically unable to do my job, he’d visit me in the tool room just to make sure I stayed in the loop of what our shop was working on, and where I could read about the maintenance in the publication manuals. He didn’t want me to fall behind on my training. As soon as that cast came off my leg, he would come and get me from the tool room any chance he could, because he genuinely cared. That’s what struck me most about him.

In fact, one day outside of work, my friend Kali asked me to take her to Autozone, where her car had broken down. She needed to change her alternator, and although I knew nothing about that, I offered to stay and keep her company as she changed it in that parking lot. Out of nowhere, I heard Jeremy’s voice cut through the parking lot “Hey Gimpy, what are you doing pretending to work on a car?!” He didn’t just fix it for us, he taught us how to do it, why it mattered, and how to have fun while figuring it out. That was Jeremy. He made everyone feel like they belonged.

The world lost Jeremy a few years ago, but I often feel his presence in the most unexpected moments, like this past week when my car wouldn’t start.

Purusha and the Quiet Steadiness

Today, in my Yin yoga class, I introduced the concept of Purusha from Samkhya and yogic philosophy. Prakriti is nature, movement, and matter; Purusha is the stillness behind it all. It is the sacred masculine, the silent witness, the unchanging consciousness that observes without interfering. It is not a force that does, but a presence that is.

Ironically, it was stillness that led to my car breaking down. I hadn’t driven it in a week because I had been sick and deeply fatigued, forced into rest by a body that simply said “enough.” When I finally went out to run errands, the car died after my first stop. That initial moment of helplessness stirred something old: the fear of being alone, the weight of always needing to figure things out by myself.

As I sat in my car, unsure of what to do, I surrendered to the experience. I went into the nearest store and asked the employee if they could help me jump my car battery. She tried, but called in a friend to help instead. When the man arrived, I recognized him immediately. His name is James, and we have known each other through mutual friends for many years. We caught up, bonding over our shared experiences of being ATs in the Navy. We hooked up the cables, and my car started easily after a minute. James pulled out a tool as the battery was building charge and said, “While we’re here, let me check your alternator to make sure it’s good.” (I see you, grandpa) He taught me about the tool and the electricity flow, and related it to the work we did in the Navy so that I could make the logical connection. I absorbed all the information he gave me. He kept saying “Not to mansplain this, but…” and I just smiled because I didn’t feel that energy. I felt that he genuinely wanted me to be safe.

That’s when I felt it: the anchor.

He encouraged me to drive around and let the battery charge. I thanked him and did exactly that, but as I drove, a sense of urgency began to rise. I did not want this to happen further away from home, so I went to Autozone, and on the way there, I said out loud, “Jeremy, this would be a great time for you to pull into that parking lot on your motorcycle again…”

When I arrived at the store, I went inside, and three men greeted me and asked if I needed any help. I replied, “I need to buy a battery…for my car.” One of the men responded, “Good thing you don’t need a battery for your watch; we don’t have those!” I laughed and was flooded with Jeremy's memory. I bought the battery from this man, Spence, and he brought it to my car along with his tools to help with the installation. When I opened the hood, he checked the connections and noticed that the red connector came right off. I remembered that this did not happen when James checked the battery just a few minutes earlier. Upon inspection, he told me it was just a loose connection with mild corrosion, and that I needed a new shim. He helped me return the battery, taught me how to clean the corrosion, and replace the worn shim - a simple, quiet act of service. No dramatics. No expectation. Just presence.

And once again, I felt it: the anchor.

That day, their grounded energy reminded me of what Purusha represents - not flashy or commanding, but steady. It's a calm “I’ve got you” that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud. It's a kind of masculinity that doesn’t rush to fix you but meets the moment with awareness, skill, and care.

That’s the sacred masculine I’ve come to recognize, not just in philosophy, but in real life.

Astrology as a Mirror

Later that evening, I looked up the transits for that entire event. The Moon was in Sagittarius, lighting up my 6th house of daily routines, wellness, and service. It sat directly on top of my natal Mercury, the planet of perception, memory, and communication. I had spent a week physically unwell, withdrawn from my routines, forced into stillness by fatigue. And in that stillness, something deeper emerged: old patterns, quiet fears, and a subtle shift in how I received care. What had once been a story of hyper-independence was being rewritten in real time through moments of surrender.

A deeper look at my chart showed that Uranus was conjunct my natal Mars in my 11th house of Taurus: the house of community, soul-aligned connections, and future visions. Mars is the part of us that pushes us into forward action. Uranus doesn’t push, it strikes, interrupts, and rewires. This combination in my 11th house didn’t just disrupt me as an individual; it awakened me to what’s possible when I lean into interdependence.

That day, I wasn’t just being slowed down; I was being energetically aligned and reconnected. Help came through others, not because I asked loudly, but because I surrendered and allowed it. The lessons from my grandfather and Jeremy, the kindness from James, and the honesty from Spence were all part of the constellation. They showed up right when I needed them the most, reminding me that strength doesn’t always mean standing alone.

My natal Mars in my 11th house has become more than willpower – it has shown me purpose in community. The transiting Uranus electrified that path, not through a major revelation, but through small acts that rewired my trust in others and my trust in life.

Yoga as a Way Through

In the days leading up to my Yin class, I reflected on my week's experiences: stillness, disruption, support, and surrender. In my class today, I introduced the concept of Purusha, the sacred masculine presence that witnesses without interference. We moved slowly, intentionally. I invited students to notice the places where they braced against support, the subtle ways we try to hold it all alone, even in rest.

While Yin yoga is often associated with the feminine energy (receptive, intuitive, and lunar), it also creates the inner space in which Purusha can be felt. The stillness of the practice invites us to become the witness. Not to do, but to be. Not to push forward, but to remain present. That, to me, is where the sacred masculine energy begins, not in force, but in quiet, unwavering awareness.

Just as my body had asked me to stop through illness, just as my car had forced me to pause on a busy day, the practice asked my students - asked me - to sit with the question: What if being held is safe?

Yoga continues to be the way I meet these depths with truths, not always with answers, but with breath, reverence, and a willingness to feel what is real in the moment. The mat becomes a mirror, a place where I remember that anchoring can be shared, that presence is powerful, even in silence, and that I do not have to hold it all alone.

Closing Reflections

To anyone reading this who carries grief, longing, or complexity around Father’s Day, your story matters.

Not all fathers are present. Not all presence feels safe. Not all absences are complete.

For those who were raised without the consistent support of a father figure, the path to healing often winds through moments like these: unexpected breakdowns, small kindnesses, and ordinary tasks that become sacred lessons. These are the moments when masculine energy, when expressed through integrity and care, can surprise us, soften us, and help us remember what safety actually feels like.

I used to believe I had to do it all myself. The need for help was a weakness. That asking for support meant I had failed. But what I’ve come to learn through yoga, astrology, grief, and grace is that true strength is not self-containment; it is self-awareness.

The sacred masculine is not about control, proving, or performing. It is about holding space, bearing witness, and showing up not to fix, but to stay. To offer steadiness when the world wobbles.

This Father’s Day, I honor not just the father I didn’t always have, but the men who anchored me when I didn’t know I needed anchoring. I honor my grandfather, who never missed a moment to show up with quiet love. I honor Jeremy, whose spirit continues to teach me through memory and laughter. I honor those who came through in parking lots, auto part stores, and the places where I finally allowed myself to be held.

May we remember that healing doesn’t always come in the form of a conversation or resolution.

Sometimes it arrives in the form of presence without expectation.

Of action without ego. Of hands that teach, hold, or simply offer a jumper cable.

May we honor the sacred masculine not only in others, but in ourselves.

And may we each become, in our own way, an anchor, not by force, but by presence.

Honor what holds you, trust the strength in stillness, and navigate home to your soul.