Breaking the Father's Day Algorithm: An Unquiet Guide to Refusing Social Media's Grief Performance

Yesterday was Father’s Day, and I didn’t play nice. I didn’t post. I didn’t pretend. Here’s my unfiltered truth about social media’s demand for perfectly packaged pain—and why I’m done performing.

I didn’t perform for the crowd—no posts, no polished tribute, no highlight reel. But yeah, I peeked. I scrolled through my Facebook memories—the good, the brutal, and everything in between. Some were torture. Some actually made me smile. I didn’t touch Instagram. I know my limits. I know what’s out there—highlight reels, “Best Dad Ever” parades, old classmates showing off their perfect, pain-free lives. Screw that. I’ve survived too much to get derailed by a hashtag.

Facing the Reality of Father’s Day

For some, Father’s Day is a card and a cookout. For me, it’s a raw nerve. If you’re here, you know the feeling.

This isn't another grief support post. This is a "fuck-you" to the algorithm, to forced celebration, to the pressure to perform your pain properly. Welcome to the unquiet space.

The Unquiet Truth About Father's Day

Let’s skip the sugarcoat. For millions, Father’s Day hits like a slap across the face—not a celebration. The world expects you to call, hug, or post about your dad—but what if you can’t? What if your father is gone, estranged, or your relationship is a wound you still carry?

Yesterday marked seven years since the man who raised me took his own life. If grief had an anniversary, mine wears his name. This year was a double slap—the world shouted “Celebrate!” while I counted the years since I last heard his voice.

The story never starts—or ends—clean. My biological dad died in a work accident just weeks after my sixth birthday, leaving me with more questions than memories, and a blank space at every school event and Father’s Day since. That was my first lesson in loss.

Then came the man who called himself “Dad” to my kids. It was sixteen years of domestic hell, walking on eggshells, never knowing which version of him would come through the door. He left scars you can’t see, chaos I’m still sweeping up, and a violence that nearly took my daughter’s life.

Father’s Day in my house isn’t about breakfast pancakes, cards, or cookouts; it’s about getting through grief and the ghosts of memories that don’t leave when the day is over.

Now, it’s the framed photos on the shelf—the ones I dust but refuse to take down—or catching a whiff of familiar cologne in a store aisle that nearly brings me to my knees. There’s no roadmap for losing your dad twice, or for explaining to your children why “Dad” is a word loaded with pain.

Father’s Day isn’t just an empty chair for me; it’s unfinished conversations, unanswered questions, and wounds that never really scab over.

Here’s the truth no one wants to slap on a coffee mug: Not everyone wants to “celebrate” this day. Not everyone can.

If you’re just trying to breathe through it, you’re not broken. You’re fucking human.

Breaking Free from Expectations

When You’re Done Performing Grief

Let me be blunt—social media is a circus on Father’s Day. The endless highlight reels and guilt-trips if you don’t play along. Every algorithm wants you in the world’s happiest dad parade.

The reality? Grief doesn’t play by anyone’s rules. According to the American Psychological Association, one in four people say holidays like Father’s Day make their mental health worse, especially when drowning in social media’s toxic positivity.

You’re not weak. The world is just loud as hell about your pain.

Breaking Free from "Celebrate or Shut Up" Culture

You don’t need permission from anyone. You don’t owe anyone a damn thing. Not a post. Not a text. Not a smile. You don’t have to “honor” the day if all you want is to make it to bedtime. Grief is not a performance.

This isn't just about Father's Day—it’s about claiming our right to be loud about the uncomfortable, the messy, the real. Join the unquiet revolution.

Setting Boundaries Without Disappearing

I didn’t block, mute, or log out. I stayed. I watched. I let the tidal wave of “Happy Father’s Day!” crash over me, even when it felt like drowning. Sometimes, the only boundary you set is letting yourself feel everything uncomfortable.

Yesterday, I scrolled through my Facebook memories—the good, the brutal, and everything in between. Some posts were pure torture, especially the ones from seven years ago. But I kept going. I found older posts that made me smile, including one I wrote years ago:

“The word ‘dad’ isn’t defined by biology or paperwork. You can never produce a child and still be a dad. You can have ten kids and never really be one. A dad is the man who shows up for the scraped knees and the midnight meltdowns. He puts the child’s needs ahead of his own. A real dad is rare, and when you have one, it changes everything. I may not share his bloodline, but I thank the universe for you every damn day, Papa—you were the father I needed. Happy Father’s Day.”

Yesterday, I told my mom “Happy Father’s Day” because she’s pulled double duty for as long as I can remember—and I meant it.

I also told my husband, Rickey, how grateful I am for him; he has been nothing but a blessing to me.

The truth is, sometimes you swear you won’t look, but you do. Sometimes it stings, and other times it saves you. Sometimes that’s all we get—one memory that guts us, one that stitches us up a little.

Sometimes the only boundary you set is with yourself: I’m not watching that parade today… but there are days you do. Maybe you scroll and wince at every photo, every “#blessed,” but you don’t turn away. It’s okay to stay in the noise without apologizing for how it hits you. Or maybe you unplug, pour a drink, or just exist in silence. It all counts. This is survival, not a contest.

Your Grief, Your Rules

You don’t have to curate your feelings for the algorithm. You don’t have to fake gratitude or act like you’ve got closure. Let yourself be angry, sad, numb, messy, or empty. You get to decide what’s allowed—without ever logging out.

There are no fancy rituals in my house. No soundtracks, no road trips, no baking cakes for ghosts. Each year, I tell my mom “Happy Father’s Day” because she’s earned it, and I tell my husband the same because he’s earned it too. I send a quiet “Happy Father’s Day up in Heaven” to my dad, to Papa, to my grandpa and uncle—just a whisper, but it matters. Some years, that’s all I have in me.

If anyone tells you how to grieve, tell them to go pound sand. You own your story—even if it’s jagged, raw, unfinished.

Creating New Traditions

Personal Rituals That Actually Help

Some rituals are salt in a wound. Others, a balm. For me, the truth is, I haven’t started any new traditions. I do what I’ve always done: acknowledge the people who stepped up and let myself feel whatever I’m feeling. If that means scrolling past everyone’s highlight reels, fine. If it means staying quiet, that’s fine too. You don’t owe anyone a performance.

What’s your ritual? Make space for whatever actually helps—even if it looks nothing like a Hallmark movie.

Unplugging with Purpose

Step off the grid if you want. Walk outside. Feel the grass under your feet. Smash the rules about “keeping up.” But if you need to stay plugged in, stay. Your absence or presence isn’t selfish—it’s survival.

Redefining Fatherhood: Beyond Biology

Honoring All Types of Father Figures

Father’s Day isn’t just about DNA. Uncles, coaches, friends, mentors—the ones who showed up when biology didn’t—they count. Maybe you never had a “dad” in the traditional sense, but you had someone. Or maybe you didn’t. That matters too.

Celebrating Those Who Step Up

Give a silent thank you to the people who picked up the slack who carried your anger, your silence, your grief. And celebrate yourself for still being here.

Building an Unquiet Community

This Is Your Unquiet Space

This isn’t just a “safe space.” This is a space to get loud, to cuss, to cry, and to heal from your trauma however you fucking need to.

No toxic positivity. No “thoughts and prayers” unless you mean it. No pressure to tidy up your grief for strangers. Bring your mess, your anger, your voice—there’s room for all of it here.

Share your story, or don’t. Yell, whisper, rage, sit in silence. This is your no-judgment zone.

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