Rekindling the Flame of Fatherhood
A journey of pain, addiction, and redemption
The first time I heard the word “lightbringer” was in therapy three years ago, and since then, it’s been burned into my mind. “Mac, your lightbringer failed you,” Adam, my therapist, said gently. Sinking into the well-worn couch in the backroom of his dojo, tears streaming down my face, I realized the source of my unnamed trauma. By then, my marriage was beyond saving, its wounds too deep to repair. Though my five-year marriage was on its deathbed, I knew I had to keep digging to find the root of my pain and reclaim my identity.
I knew my addiction to porn had destroyed my marriage, but I didn’t fully understand why I kept returning to it. My therapist suggested EMDR to help me uncover the original wounds I had spent decades trying to medicate. Addiction, whether to porn, alcohol, or anything else, often stems from unprocessed pain. In my case, it came from my childhood. Instead of dealing with the real source of distress, we numb it, avoid it, or bury it under compulsive behaviors. Although I had multiple sober streaks, my therapist believed that if I could access the deeper trauma through EMDR, I could begin the real work of healing.
To explain briefly, EMDR works by guiding a person to recall distressing experiences while engaging in bilateral stimulation, typically by moving their eyes back and forth. This helps the brain reprocess traumatic memories so they no longer hold the same emotional charge. Thanks to Adam, this technique worked.
Through tearful EMDR sessions, I uncovered what I had been trying to forget. My lightbringer had fallen. The pain I had been numbing was rooted in my father’s struggle with alcohol during my teenage years. He was never abusive when he drank, he was simply absent. And that absence hurt even more because, before alcohol took hold, he was anything but absent.
My dad played college basketball in the ’80s, embracing the moniker of a “leaping white boy.” I loved hearing his stories of swatting away NBA-bound dunks or soaring above giants for rebounds. He was a fighter, raised by his widowed mother and helping raise three brothers after losing his own father to a brain tumor. That loss shaped him, matured him, but also left a void he carried into adulthood.
My father was larger than life to me. He was my basketball coach, my role model, my guide on how to be a man. But as I transitioned from childhood to adolescence, I began to lose that version of him. The father who once moved with effortless grace now seemed weighed down by something I didn’t yet understand. That hole, the one left by his absence, was the same one I later tried to fill.
I’d often come home from practice to find him slumped in front of the TV, detached from the world. Each time I saw his slouched shape, my heart sank, and pain crept in. Memories of childhood flooded back—one-on-one basement games where Dad played “left-handed” so I could win, or later, when he played right-handed but held back just enough to build my confidence. This man of the past was invested in me.
Then, reality would snap me back. All I wanted to do was retreat to the basement, log onto the family computer, and enter my own void. While Jim Beam was my dad’s main mistress, nude women online were mine. Initially hooked on porn at ten, the mixture of trauma and a voracious teenage sex drive was like sending a tiger to a petting zoo. What started as curiosity became a full-fledged addiction, inextricably tied to my father’s addiction to alcohol.
As I recounted these events in EMDR, old wounds were laid bare. Agonizing memories of family trips ruined by my father’s absence and my college graduation culminating in a yelling match, a young man both embarrassed and heartbroken as his father’s blurred eyes failed to see his son’s big day. He wasn’t present, and it hurt. To numb that pain, I drank too. I lived the standard playboy life in college and beyond, masking my sadness and anger beneath drunken laughter and reckless adventures.
But now, in my 30s, as I faced my pain in therapy, the underlying sadness and anger gave way to understanding. Over many sessions with Adam, it became clear that my dad’s pain stemmed from his own father’s absence, mirroring my timeline almost exactly. Generational trauma was staring me in the face, and I knew I had to end it. My pain had a purpose: to heal, not to harm.
Oddly enough, healing came before I fully understood the depth of our trauma bond. It came not through therapy or conscious effort, but through something much older, something woven into the fabric of our shared history—the tradition of elk hunting.
Passed down from my grandfather to my father, and finally to me, this ritual became an unlikely vessel for healing. It wasn’t just the thrill of the hunt—it was the silence of the mountains, the challenge of deep-rutted roads, and thigh-deep hikes through snow. It was the long hours spent with nothing but our thoughts and the sounds of nature around us. In those moments, I heard more than just the wind howling through the trees. I heard the unspoken dialogue between my father and me. No words, no grand gestures. Just two men, broken in our own ways, tethered by a tradition neither of us fully understood until then.
Our turning point came on a memorable trip. Days before I shot my first bull elk in 2018, my dad, out of nowhere, appeared incredibly drunk during a harrowing ATV ride through a blizzard. My ATV kept shutting off, and my father was completely useless. Eventually, I figured out the loose ground cable, but I couldn’t shake the creeping sadness. That night, in our warm tent, I finally spoke the words I had held onto for years.
I told my dad how much I loved him. How much hunting with him meant to me. How much I respected his knowledge of the woods and his love for adventure. I told him how safe I felt around him because he always knew what to do in a pinch. I told him I wanted to hunt with him until he was 90, but if he kept drinking like this, he’d be lucky to make it to 70.
I saw it in his eyes, the flame flickered back to life. The fighter was back in the ring. The man I knew and loved, here to stay. Not long after, I shot my first bull elk. Dropping to my knees, I sobbed, feeling a connection not just to my dad, but to his father before him, a man I had never met, yet whose pride swelled through my DNA. The ancient ritual of provision, of harvest, bound us together. From that day on, our hunts have been free of alcohol, and I’m proud to say that so too has my father.
Since breaking free from porn alongside my little brother, I’ve come to understand that healing goes beyond overcoming personal addictions, it’s about breaking the generational cycle of trauma. I’ve shared my experiences in the hope that they can serve as a guide for anyone seeking freedom from the chains of pain and addiction. Whether my story resonates with parents, children, or future generations, I want others to know that it’s possible to break free, to build new traditions of healing, and to mend what’s been broken.
A hundred days ago, I began another journey of sobriety—this time from alcohol, alongside my little sister. I am deeply proud of her, and I’m grateful that we’re walking this path together. As brother and sister, we’ve made the decision to end the trauma passed down to us, and we’re committed to creating traditions of healing and connection, instead of continuing cycles of harm.
Healing is not a straight line, nor is it quick, but it is possible. Sometimes, it doesn’t come through words or therapy alone, but through something more profound, something ancient. A shared fire, a hunt, an adventure. When we step into the wilderness together, the flame of the lightbringer can be rekindled. Together, we can forge a future free from the shadows of the past, where the lightbringer’s flame shines brighter than ever.
How about you?
We’d love for you to share in the comments:
Have you ever experienced a moment where you realized the deeper source of your pain? How did that understanding change your healing journey?
What steps have you taken, or are you considering taking, to break cycles of trauma in your own family or upbringing?
What traditions or rituals have helped you heal or connect with others?
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Such a powerfully told, beautiful story, Mac. Thank you for sharing.
What a thoughtful essay, thank you Mac! I come from a lineage of alcohol addiction and addiction to denial and delusion. I am glad you and your siblings are healing yours so it ends. My siblings are not all ready for this work.