Getting Good from Something Bad: A Letter My Father Will Probably Read

By Justin Steubs

Most kids grow up wanting their parents to be heroes.

In many ways, I got half of that. My mother is the most loving, resilient, and selfless person I’ve ever known. She gave me safety, strength, and the kind of love that expects nothing in return.

My father, Mike Steubs, gave me something else.

Pain. Pressure. Chaos.

But strangely, that too became a gift.

My parents divorced when I was about three. My mom and I moved to Southern California, while my dad stayed in Oregon. I saw him during summers until, around age seven or eight, I told my mom I didn’t want to go anymore. I was scared of him. He was emotionally abusive. His reaction? Rage. He left disturbing messages on our home voicemail for years. I didn’t see him again until I was ten, when he forced his way back into my life—literally—by banging on our front door. My mom, trying to follow the law, said he had a right to see me.

That visit haunts me. He asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I said, “a major league baseball player.” He smiled and said he’d make it happen—but he wanted a million dollars when I did.

I wasn’t a son to him. I was a potential payday.

Over the next eight years, he pushed me like a machine. I trained constantly. I became an elite athlete and nearly signed with the MLB out of high school. Academically, I did great until junior year, when the emotional toll caught up to me. Then I moved in with him my senior year and got a 4.0. He gave support, but it was always conditional—driven more by control than care.

I remember one time—maybe I was 12 or 13—my mom had said or done something that upset him, which somehow became my fault. He kept me awake for nearly 40 hours straight, lecturing me the entire time. No sleep. No escape. Just endless words, circling the same pain, trying to make me understand something I didn’t do—and couldn’t fix. That was his way: control disguised as teaching, punishment disguised as parenting.

He once told me he had Tourette’s and schizophrenia. Maybe. I don’t know what part of his behavior came from mental illness and what part came from cruelty. I never met his father, Harold Percy Steubs, but I’ve heard he was a sharp dresser and a manipulative tyrant. Based on everything I’ve seen, I believe my dad inherited his father’s demons—passed down like a curse no one ever acknowledged, just acted out.

That demon didn’t just come for me.

He once called the FAA to try and ruin his own brother’s career, making wild accusations. He also called his sister’s workplace and said something so vile and false, I still feel sick thinking about it—accusations meant to humiliate and destroy. She’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever known. One by one, he pushed everyone away. Today, nobody in his family speaks with him.

But I’ll be honest—some part of me always wanted to feel sorry for him.

I’ve wondered if I should have tried harder to help him. But the truth is: it’s not my job to fix my dad. He doesn’t want help. According to him, he’s never made a mistake. He’s the smartest person alive. And when you believe you’re perfect, there’s no room to grow.

How do you fix perfection?

You don’t. You walk away from it.

Today, we don’t speak. He still lives in Oregon. I’m in Southern California. But he follows my life obsessively. He Googles me constantly, finds anything negative, takes screenshots, and throws them in my face. That’s his way of staying connected—by trying to reinsert himself into my story.

And yes, he’ll read this.

That’s okay.

Because here’s what I want him—and anyone else going through something similar—to know:

You can get good from something bad. You can learn who not to become. You can survive. You can break the cycle.

I don’t carry hate. But I do carry boundaries. I’ve stopped trying to fix what refuses to heal. I’ve stopped chasing apologies that will never come. I’ve stopped mistaking fear—or obsession—for love.

My father didn’t abandon me. He clung to me. Haunted me. Tried to control every part of who I was becoming. Not to destroy me, but to fill something in himself that was missing. A void he never understood, and never stopped trying to outrun.

And maybe the most important part of all: it’s made me a better dad. I know what it feels like to grow up afraid, confused, and unseen—and I’ve made a promise to never pass that on. My kids don’t have to earn my love, wonder where they stand, or carry my baggage. They get safety. They get joy. They get the version of a father I needed, and finally became.

But I found a different kind of Father.

One who doesn’t stalk or manipulate. One who doesn’t twist love into control. One who doesn’t demand loyalty—but offers His.

God gave me a broken father on earth. But He also gave me Himself. Steady. Present. Full of grace. He never screamed. Never lied. Never made me earn His love. He just loved me.

And that’s the Father I follow now.