I spent 45 years trying to earn my father's approval before I realized it was never available—here's what freed me

For most of my life, I treated my dad’s approval like a prize.

If I could just be impressive enough, responsible enough, successful enough, something in him would soften. He’d finally look at me the way I’d been hoping for since I was a kid.

And if you’ve lived this, you know how convincing it feels. It doesn’t feel like begging. It feels like motivation. Standards. Discipline. Love, if you squint.

The hard truth landed later than I’d like to admit. It wasn’t that I hadn’t earned his approval. It was that the kind of approval I needed wasn’t something he had to give.

That realization hurt. It also saved me.

Here’s what freed me, in a way you can actually use.

1) I stopped treating approval like proof of worth

Let me ask you a question.

When someone important is disappointed in you, do you instantly feel like you did something wrong, even if you didn’t?

That was my reflex. If my father was quiet, critical, unimpressed, or just neutral, my body read it as danger. I’d want to explain myself better, work harder, show more receipts. I acted like I could fix the feeling by fixing me.

But love is not a bonus structure.

I practiced separating feedback from identity.

Feedback is information. Identity is who you are.

If my dad disliked a choice I made, that didn’t mean I was a disappointment as a human. It meant he disliked that choice. That’s it.

The sentence that helped me most was this: I can be a good person and still be disapproved of.

Try saying it out loud and notice what comes up. Relief? Anger? Grief? That odd guilt that appears even when you know you did nothing wrong?

That reaction is telling you how tightly your worth has been tied to someone else’s mood.

2) I grieved the father I wanted, not the father I had

Acceptance sounds calm. In real life, it often starts with grief.

For years I believed I was one breakthrough conversation away from being understood. If I just explained it right, he’d get it. If I achieved enough, he’d respect it. If I became the “right” version of me, he’d finally approve.

I was waiting for the movie moment. The one where the father finally says, “I’m proud of you.”

Instead, I got what I always got. A critique. A shrug. A pivot to what I should do next.

I had to grieve something specific: The father I kept hoping would show up.

I grieved the father who could ask questions without turning them into judgments. I grieved the father who could hold my joy without competing with it. I grieved the father who could offer comfort without attaching conditions.

This wasn’t about demonizing him. It was about ending the fantasy contract. The one where I kept paying emotional rent for a home that wasn’t going to be built.

Here’s what I wish someone had told me sooner: Wanting warmth is not a character flaw.

But wanting it doesn’t mean you can pull it out of someone who doesn’t know how to give it.

3) I learned to spot approval-hunger in real time

Approval-seeking is sneaky. It doesn’t always look like asking for praise.

Sometimes it looks like overworking. Sometimes it looks like over-explaining. Sometimes it looks like being “low maintenance” while quietly keeping score of what you never ask for.

I started paying attention to my body, because my body always knew before my brain did.

Approval-hunger had a signature for me: Tight chest, fast talking, a sudden urge to prove. I’d feel like I was presenting my life in court.

Do you have a version of that?

Maybe you send one more text to clarify your tone. Maybe you rehearse what you’ll say so you sound more reasonable. Maybe you keep doing favors so someone will finally treat you well.

When I noticed those signals, I’d pause and ask myself: What am I trying to earn right now?

And: What would I do if I didn’t need to earn it?

That second question opens options you can’t see when you’re trapped in the chase.

4) I replaced “prove myself” with “become myself”

Proving is endless. Becoming is honest.

When you live to prove yourself, your life becomes a performance.

You pick the path that looks impressive, not the one that fits. You choose the role that gets applause, not the one that feels like you. You hide the parts of you that might be criticized and polish the parts that get praised.

You can even look successful from the outside and still feel hollow.

The moment I stopped chasing my father’s approval, I had to face a scary question.

If I’m not trying to impress him, what do I actually want?

At first, I didn’t know. That’s how much of my identity had been shaped around his reactions.

I started small. I looked for places where I felt quiet and steady.

Trail runs where my brain stopped arguing with itself. Time in the garden where growth didn’t require perfection, just consistency. Volunteering at farmers’ markets where people show up imperfect and hopeful and it’s still enough.

These weren’t dramatic breakthroughs. They were tiny returns to self.

And over time, those tiny returns made me feel solid in a way approval never did.

5) I built boundaries that didn’t require his understanding

One of the biggest traps is thinking your boundary needs to be accepted to be valid.

Like you have to explain it perfectly so the other person agrees you’re allowed to have it.

But boundaries are not requests for permission. They’re decisions.

My early boundaries with my father were simple.

I won’t discuss my appearance, my food choices, or my body. I won’t stay in conversations that turn into insults. I won’t defend my life like I’m on trial.

I’m vegan, which can become a weird family battleground. For years I tried to make it acceptable by explaining it in a way that would satisfy him. Eventually I realized I didn’t need to win a debate to deserve respect.

I used short scripts. I’m not talking about that.

If this continues, I’m going to go. At first, it felt rude. Then it felt powerful. Then it felt normal.

Here’s a helpful truth: Boundaries often feel like cruelty to people who benefited from your lack of them.

Let them have their feelings. You don’t have to carry them.

6) I found safe mirrors outside my family

If your main mirror growing up was critical or emotionally unavailable, you can start to believe that’s what love feels like.

You end up chasing people who are hard to please because it feels familiar. And familiar can feel like destiny, even when it’s actually just a pattern.

Part of my healing was finding new mirrors. People who reflected me back accurately, not harshly.

Not people who agreed with everything. Just people who could be honest without contempt.

Friends who could say, “I don’t see it that way,” without trying to shrink me.

Mentors who could challenge me while still respecting me.

Communities where belonging wasn’t something I had to earn by performing.

If you don’t have those people yet, start with one relationship where you feel calmer after you talk, not more anxious.

That calm is often a sign of emotional safety. And emotional safety is what so many of us confuse with approval.

7) I gave myself the approval I was begging for

For decades, I waited for my father to say, “You did enough.”

I started saying it to myself, in a grounded way.

When I finished something hard, I told myself: That was difficult. I did it anyway. When I made a choice I believed in, I told myself: I’m proud of how I handled that.

When guilt showed up because I wasn’t pleasing him, I told myself: Guilt doesn’t mean I’m wrong. It means I’m changing.

That last one matters, because guilt is often the first alarm system you trigger when you stop playing your old role. Your system thinks you’re doing something dangerous by not earning love the usual way.

You teach it a new pattern: I can be safe without approval.

Over time, I stopped needing my father to stamp my life as valid.

I became the stamp.

Final thoughts

If you’re still chasing a parent’s approval, I want you to hear this clearly: You’re not weak. You’re not foolish. You’re not “too much.”

You’re loyal. You’re hopeful. And you learned early that love might be something you earn.

But you can stop auditioning.

You can stop translating your life into a language they refuse to understand.

You can build a life that feels like yours, even if someone important never claps for it.

One last question to sit with.

What would you do differently this week if you truly believed you don’t have to earn love? Start there.