A Journey of Recovery and Family Support

“You can’t reject someone because they have a tattoo, Dad.” My father sighed reluctantly, spending hours sorting through my dating app matches, deleting profiles while I worked beside him. At almost 40, my father had become the CEO of my life. Logistics was his love language.

As he continued sifting, he asked, “What is cuffing season?” I laughed and explained, “It’s when people want to cuddle during the cold months.” He noted his favorite profiles in a small notebook, most were golfers or loved antiques, things close to his heart. “If you find any profiles you like,” he offered, “we can look at them together.” I thought of a matchmaker from Fiddler on the Roof.

Operation Whitney Recovery was underway. Two months earlier, my envisioned future—home, maybe a child—vanished when my boyfriend suggested a “break”. It happened on the last day we could withdraw from a house purchase contract. In early November, my parents suggested I stay with them for the rest of the year. I moved out of my boyfriend’s place in South Carolina to my parents’ home in Florida. While grateful, living in the guest room felt regressive. I mourned the relationship’s loss, along with cherished places and people.

I planned to stay with my parents through Thanksgiving before getting an Airbnb nearby until Christmas. My father had other plans. We’ve been close since I was a child. At age three, he took me to Krispy Kreme for doughnuts, just the two of us, discussing problems from both our worlds—childhood issues, his layoff, then my divorce at 34.

He spilled chocolate milk on my favorite OshKosh overalls during an early visit. “She spilled it all over herself,” he’d tell my mom with his mischievous laugh, knowing she wouldn’t believe him.

Now, he brought me there to discuss my heartbreak. “I thought he would do anything for you,” Dad said about my ex, “Instead, he did nothing.” But lamenting couldn’t change the outcome.

Dad got to work. Most mornings, I’d join him in his home office—Mission Control. With their dogs—a Wheaten terrier and a standard poodle—we mapped daily recovery plans. I planned to find a new place near my parents for their aging support and more time together. When nearing a lease above a Pilates studio, Dad insisted on visiting during class to check the noise levels. The instructor’s commands and music were intrusive.

When visiting another apartment, my father saw my face light up. Confidently, I said, “This is the one,” for the first plan emerging from my desires, not life built around my ex. Dad joined me at multiple meetings with a financial advisor to ensure security despite personal uncertainties. Through this unstable period, my home remained with parents, Krispy Kreme rituals, and Mission Control.

Dad shared insights, “These dating apps are awful, Whitney,” he laughed. “No kidding… At least I have you,” I replied, meaningfully. Mission Control succeeded; my father’s care advanced my life while restoring confidence. In early February, I moved nearby, decorated walls, and found favorite coffee shops.

I missed the dogs awaiting the morning home office visit. Yet excited for the future and grateful for parental support. Physical distance strained previous closeness, but this void allowed their love to reconnect. Sometimes, I call Dad in mornings to update or seek advice.

On Valentine’s Day, I met someone new, a profile I chose—tattoo included—on Hinge.

Whitney Hinds Coble is a lawyer, trauma-informed coach, and memoir writer based in St. Petersburg, Florida. She is completing Stanford University’s Memoir Writing Certificate, writing Held, a memoir of trauma, relationships, and finding home with support.

All views herein are the author’s own.

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