Dear Flawed People,
Let me start by saying this: if you cuss when you stub your toe or let the dishes pile up in the sink, I'm not talking about you.
I'm talking to the deeply flawed folks.
The alcoholics.
The addicts.
The ones with a mean streak.
I was born to a seventeen-year-old boy who grew up to be a deeply flawed man.
Daddy could wake up all smiles—bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. But by the time the sun went down, he could be cold and callous. Scary.
You never knew which version of him was coming through the door. Would it be laughter around the kitchen table? Or would you end up hiding under the bed?
It wasn't exactly Daddy's fault.
A TBI left him unable to self regulate or mature. He looked normal. Most folks never knew.
But his mind was broken.
Daddy raged like a wild man and then fell silent, knowing he'd gone too far. The people who loved him most could see it.
There really were two wolves fighting inside him.
Pretending the bad times never happened would be a lie. But denying the good might be a worse sin.
Daddy taught me how to change a tire and check my oil before I ever had a license. To spot the difference between a tom and a hen from a distance. To identify bloodroot on the forest floor and how to use it. He taught me to appreciate the opening chords of every Skynyrd song.
He taught me to raise hell and praise Dale.
I'm funny. Passionate. Fiery. I can hold my own.
I didn't become those things despite having a deeply flawed daddy. I became them because of it.
I inherited his best traits right alongside the damage.
Do I tell you this because I think it excuses what he did?
No.
I tell you this because it's Daddy's birthday, and I want to offer a little hope.
If you're deeply flawed, hear me when I say: the people who love you are paying attention.
Your brokenness isn't invisible.
That unpredictability you think you've hidden teaches your children to brace for storms, even on sunny days.
The bottle doesn't just steal your evenings. The rage doesn't just ruin your mood. The selfishness doesn't just affect you.
It steals their sense of safety.
And if you never acknowledge it—never fight it—that fear becomes the inheritance.
Trauma explains a lot.
Addiction explains a lot.
Injury explains a lot.
A hard life explains a lot.
But explanation isn't permission.
You can't control what broke you, but you can decide what you do with the pieces.
If you refuse to face it, eventually you stop being only the victim of your pain and become the architect of someone else's.
I've lived it.
I've watched good people lose families, peace, and the legacies they wanted to leave behind because they fed the wrong wolf.
The story doesn't have to end there.
I carry the best parts of Daddy like a lantern through the dark.
Those gifts didn't come from a perfect man. They came from a flawed one who still showed up some days with bright eyes and useful hands.
You can be that for someone, too.
The good wolf is still hungry.
Feed it.
Get help.
Make the call.
Put down the bottle.
Go to therapy.
Make the apology.
Teach the tire-changing, the bloodroot, and the Skynyrd chords without the terror that comes after.
And to those who grew up under roofs like mine:
You get to sort through the inheritance.
Keep the stories.
Keep the skills.
Keep the grit and resilience.
Leave the fear under the bed where it belongs.
You don't have to carry everything that was handed to you.
You can honor the good without whitewashing the bad.
Both shaped who you are.
And flawed people, your slate isn't clean.
But the story isn't over when the rage fades, the bottle empties, or the broken mind grows quiet.
It ends with what we choose to build from the pieces.
The South is full of people like us—imperfect hands cleared the land, wrote the songs, raised the families, and passed down something worth keeping.
Feed the good wolf.
The rest of us are rooting for you.
Always,
Cassie