How Long Am I Going to Be Defined by My Past?

When you’re trying to become a different man, but the world keeps looking at the man you used to be

I thought things were finally going to start getting better.

Instead, my bike has spent more time in the air on a stand than on the road this month—and that means I’m not making money. I haven’t seen my older two kids in nearly two weeks, because I was asked not to see them until Children’s Aid figures out how they want to deal with my charges in the US.

I’m tired.

It’s been a very painful couple of weeks.

I keep trying to press in and trust God, but man, that is hard.

He is my source and my provider. Not my bike. Not a job. God. Only He can fix my life.

But right now, my life feels pretty miserable.

And lonely.

Every now and then I see someone at church or out and about, and I catch myself wondering what my life would be like if I had her. Maybe someone to come home to. Someone to share the good days with. Someone to sit beside me on the bad ones.

Then the feelings of disqualification creep in.

I feel like I’m not allowed to be happy. Like I’m not even allowed to be content.

I feel like I don’t deserve a healthy relationship with a woman.

The trouble is, I know none of that is true.

I deserve those things just as much as anyone else does. And I also know that being in a romantic relationship wouldn’t fix everything else in my life. A woman cannot fix my finances, my relationship with my children, my past, or my relationship with God.

But knowing that doesn’t make the loneliness disappear.

I’m still sad.

I’m still lonely.

And maybe that feeling of disqualification goes deeper than relationships.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m disqualified from having the life I’m trying to build at all.

Disqualified from happiness.

Disqualified from being the father I want to be.

Disqualified from having a future that looks different from my past.

But being disqualified is a feeling, not a fact.

Missing My Kids

Despite the fact that I can’t see my kids in person right now, I’ve been speaking with my older two frequently by phone every week. Hearing their voices while knowing that I can’t simply hug them afterward has been much more challenging than I expected.

A phone call is better than nothing, and I’m grateful that I can still talk to them.

But hanging up the phone is a strange kind of pain when what you really want to do is hug your kids.

And my heart is breaking for my younger two.

I haven’t had a meaningful conversation with them since before Christmas of 2025.

That is a long time.

There are things I want to tell them. Things I want to ask them. Moments I want to share with them. But right now, I can’t simply pick up the phone and have that conversation.

I don’t know what they understand about all of this. I don’t know what they’ve been told. And I don’t know what they think about their dad not being there.

That hurts in a way I don’t really know how to explain.

My older two have been supportive for the most part. They are starting to see their mother differently because of the way they’ve seen her treating everyone—me, them, and my younger two kids.

They’ve told me things about what has been happening at home, and some of those things have been deeply concerning.

At this point, I don’t understand the decision Children’s Aid made.

And I’m struggling with it because it leaves a much broader question unanswered.

I don’t understand how something that happened years ago, in another country, and didn’t involve my children can be the reason my children are currently separated from me.

I understand that my past matters.

I understand that people responsible for children’s safety have to take concerns seriously.

I am not asking anyone to ignore what happened.

I don’t expect my past to disappear simply because I’ve changed. I understand that trust has to be earned. I understand that people are going to have questions about who I was.

But at some point, who I am now has to be part of the equation.

I had reasonable access to my older two for more than a year. It was based around their schedules, their lives, and what they wanted. I was able to spend time with them. I was able to be their dad.

That matters to me.

My pastor once told me something that stuck with me. Because of my past, I’ll probably never be the youth pastor. (not that I wanted that job, anyway)

And honestly?

I can live with that.

There are things my past legitimately disqualifies me from.

But my past doesn’t disqualify me from meaningful participation in church life. It doesn’t mean I can’t serve. It doesn’t mean I can’t contribute. It doesn’t mean I can’t be trusted with appropriate responsibilities.

That seems like a sensible way of looking at redemption to me.

I believe redemption has to mean something.

If a person can acknowledge what they did, accept the consequences, change the way they live, and spend years trying to become someone different, then surely that person cannot be defined forever by the worst chapter of their life.

That doesn’t mean I get to demand trust.

It doesn’t mean anyone has to forget what happened.

It means I hope the opportunity to prove who I am now eventually matters.

And that is where I am struggling with Children’s Aid.

Even though I don’t understand or agree with the decision, I am cooperating. I’m answering their questions about my family and my children, even when I don’t have access to the records they’re asking about. When the social worker needed family and social background information, I gave her the best information I had based on what I could remember.

I’m trying to follow the process.

I’m trying to be helpful.

I’m trying to do this the right way, even when I don’t understand why this is happening.

When Things Changed

From my perspective, things began changing in the spring, when my ex started dating.

There were some clear red flags in the situation, but it appeared that she let her desires override her judgment.

I know what that looks like because I’ve personally lived it.

That is the reason I got into a lot of this mess in the first place. I let my desires override sound judgment. I knew what I was doing was a terrible idea, but I wanted what I wanted badly enough that I was willing to ignore everything telling me to stop.

I know what it is like to make a decision you know is wrong and make it anyway.

So I’m not sitting here pretending I’m somehow above that.

But from what I saw, things changed.

My children didn’t seem to be as much of a priority anymore. The way they were treated changed. Money that should have been used to support the children’s basic needs was being redirected elsewhere.

At home, there was a broken refrigerator. It apparently had been broken for some time.

Based on what my older two told me, their mother appeared to have the money to replace it, but for reasons I don’t understand, she chose not to.

That makes me angry.

I haven’t had a lot of money since I returned to Canada over a year ago. But I have always tried to help my kids and spend as much time with them as possible.

When I came back, I was given a warning that I never forgot.  (You can read about this part of my story here)

If I did anything to make her life difficult—especially regarding her abuse of the power of attorney I had signed while I was away—I was told I would never see my kids again.

I can’t prove that what is happening now is connected to that warning.

But I would be lying if I said I haven’t thought about it.

She made absolutely certain that Children’s Aid was aware of “her concerns regarding my past.”

And now, something that happened four years ago, in another country, and didn’t involve my family, is being used as a reason to deny me access to my children.

Meanwhile, there were things happening in that home that I found deeply concerning, including an incident where one of my children was kicked in the stomach during an argument.

That was recent.

That happened in my kids’ home.

And I struggle to understand how those things can exist alongside a decision that focuses so heavily on something I did years ago.

I’m not saying my past shouldn’t matter.

I’m asking when my present gets to matter too.

When does who I am now get to matter in a meaningful way?

How long does a person have to live in the shadow of the worst thing they’ve ever done?

I wish I had a good answer.

I don’t.

Where Is God?

And that brings me back to God.

Where is He?

I keep praying, but I’m still suffering. I’m still hurting. I still don’t have peace about this situation.

There are days when my prayers sound a lot like Habakkuk:

“How long, O LORD, must I call for help? But you do not listen!”
— Habakkuk 1:2, NLT

That is where I am right now.

I don’t feel God working.

I don’t see the answers.

I don’t know when I’ll see my kids again. I don’t know when my bike will finally stay on the road long enough for me to make some money. I don’t know when the loneliness will lift. I don’t know when people will stop seeing me primarily through the lens of my past.

I don’t know what God is doing.

But I haven’t given up on Him.

I still go to church.

I still serve there.

I still pray.

I still try to cooperate even when I don’t understand.

I still try to become the man I believe God wants me to be.

Maybe that is what faith looks like sometimes.

Not having peace.

Not having answers.

Not understanding what God is doing.

Just refusing to walk away when you can’t see the way forward.

I wish I could tell you that I have some great revelation about why all of this is happening.

I don’t.

Right now, I’m angry.

I’m lonely.

I’m hurting.

I’m frustrated.

And I’m still here.

Maybe that’s the best I can offer today.

I’m still here.

Still praying.

Still fighting.

Still believing.

Down, but not out.