For most of my life, I was told that politics shouldn’t end relationships. That political opinions can just be looked past. That family should always come first. But what happens when those beliefs stop being abstract and start being harmful to your values and the people you hold closest?
In my father’s house (he and my mother split up when I was young), the environment he created taught me who was acceptable and who wasn’t. When I was just 12 years old, he had me convinced to defend ICE; anti-immigrant rhetoric slipped into casual family dinner conversations. In his eyes, America was a place meant only for a few, and anyone who didn’t fit that image should be feared.
He didn’t soften his language around me, either. When it came to my own romantic life, his words made me feel like love itself had borders I couldn’t dare cross. At the time, I laughed them off in that awkward way one does when you don’t feel safe disagreeing.
And yet, this was still my father, the same man who tucked me in at night, bought me whatever I wanted, and made me feel protected when I was young. But the comfort I once felt around him no longer aligned with my beliefs. As I grew older, holding those two truths at once became exhausting, and it wasn’t something I was willing to carry into adulthood.
As I entered high school, the gap between my values and my father’s political beliefs grew impossible to ignore. His support for President Donald Trump and ICE wasn’t something that I could pass off as ignorance anymore; it was a direct endorsement of systems that cage, deport, and traumatize families to this day — systems that harm people who look like my friends, my classmates, and the person I would eventually fall in love with.
When I was 18 years old, I cut my father out of my life completely. It happened quickly, over the phone with a simple block button. The reason wasn’t entirely political at first; my father was an angry man, the type who took his anger out on the people he loved and then tried to make it right a few hours later. I’d finally realized that staying in the same cycle would mean continuing to shrink and hide the parts of me that made me who I am. A father’s love is meant to be unconditional, but with him, it always felt negotiable. At the time, walking away didn’t hurt the way I expected it to. I felt relieved.
Now, politics are the main reason why I refuse to reconnect with him.
I’ve been dating a proud Hispanic man for almost two years — the exact type of man I expect my father would have warned me about, feared, and openly disapproved of. Loving my boyfriend has forced me to confront everything I was taught growing up about race, safety, and culture. Where I was once taught fear, I’ve now found care. Where there was distance, I found warmth.
My boyfriend’s family welcomed me with generosity and openness, completely reshaping my understanding of what family can look like. Through them, I’ve learned that culture isn’t something to fear or dismiss; it’s something to honor. Hearing them speak fluent Spanish around one another isn’t un-American; it’s an active invitation for me to listen, learn, and grow.
I won’t pretend that their presence in my life hasn’t made the absence of my father feel heavier, but it has made that absence feel a lot more justified.
As hard as I try not to, I still think about the father I loved as a child and wonder if reconnection is possible. I miss the version of him that existed before I understood the cruelty of politics, before every conversation felt like a test of my own values.
Society loves to tell us that estrangement is a failure, especially when it involves a parent. In the years since I went no-contact, I have constantly grappled with guilt, grief, and constant pressure from my family members to “look past the politics.” When I cut off my father, I didn’t just lose him, either. I lost the entire side of his family, including my stepmother, grandmother, uncle, and more.
To this day, I still wonder if I was being dramatic — that’s what my mother would tell me, anyway. I wonder if I owed my father more patience because of his mental health struggles, or simply because he was the only father I would ever have. But the truth is simple: Loving him required betraying myself.
Every time the current political climate escalates, I’m reminded why his absence from my life is necessary. Reconnection without accountability would cost me too much, and forgiveness without change would mean sacrificing the life I have built for myself, despite my upbringing. People say family is everything, but to me, some things just matter more.
Ending my relationship with my father wasn’t about intolerance; it was about boundaries. It was about recognizing that when someone’s beliefs support systems that harm people, neutrality stops being neutral and simply becomes complicity. It took a long time, but I learned the hard way that politics aren’t just politics. They’re a measure of who feels safe in your presence, and I want people to feel safe in mine.
If you’re navigating a polarized family, questioning relationships that no longer align with your values, or wondering whether choosing yourself makes you selfish, please know that I see you. Sometimes, prioritizing your morals means letting go of the people you were once closest to, including your family. And sometimes, that choice is the most loving one you can make.