Fatherhood

In a world where modern parenthood is often defined by the fantasy of being born into wealth, it seems as though the ultimate desire has shifted. Today, the idols are the Kardashians, the Trumps, and the Rothschilds; families whose last names are louder than their love. We are made to believe that riches are the highest form of protection, that to grow up in silk is to be safe, and to be poor is to be cursed. But it wasn’t always this way. Before capitalism dressed itself as salvation, there was a deeper wish: to grow up in warmth, in simplicity, in a home filled with love.

There was a time when the idea of family meant something else entirely. A protective father. A present, loving mother. Children who laughed without needing permission. This dream, so old and almost forgotten, was once stitched into sacred texts and echoed through the American dream; the vision that life’s greatest reward was to build a home, raise a family, and, when time gently took you, pass away surrounded by love. The ideal was simple: to die peacefully, not in fame or fortune, but in the arms of those who called you “dad,” “mom,” or “grandpa.” And to be remembered, not for what you owned, but for how you loved.

But somehow, along the way, especially the image of the father began to erode. It became blurry, then silent, then replaced. And when you’re a man growing up in today’s world, you start to notice that what we once held sacred about fatherhood has become misunderstood, or worse, ignored. There’s a strange, almost inevitable clash between fathers and sons, a conflict so rooted in pride and identity that it often leaves both sides bruised. And yet, time has a way of flipping the mirror. You begin to realize, slowly and painfully, that the same man you once judged, the same man you once thought didn’t get it… was carrying the weight of a world you were too young to see.

The real curse, perhaps, is not becoming like your father.

But the fear that you never will.

As men, we spend years chasing role models who will mold us, save us, and sharpen us. Maybe it’s a teacher, a coach, an older friend, a relative, or a boss. But surely, it’s someone who walks like a man should walk, who speaks with certainty, and who seems to know who he is. We watch them, follow them, and sometimes idolize them. We try so hard to learn how to be men that we forget the first man we ever met. The one who held us in his arms, whether gently or firmly. The one who may not have been perfect, but who stayed.

We forget that our fathers, even if not always poetic, even if not always expressive, were living their own storms, working quietly, enduring silently, and giving endlessly. And if you were lucky enough to have a dad who stayed, who worked, who provided, and who chose every day to be decent, then you’ve been given one of life’s rarest blessings. Not a perfect father, but a good man. A man who gave when he had nothing left to give. A man who made sure there was food, education, clothes, and dignity. A man who didn’t leave when life got hard. And in this age of broken homes, of endless divorces, of children passed between courts and cheques, that kind of man is gold.

But here's the truth no one prepares you for: being the son of a good man can be one of the heaviest weights to carry. You grow up believing you’ll surpass him, that you’ll do it better or bigger, only to wake up one day and realize that even reaching where he stood feels impossible. You start to remember all the mornings he woke up in the biting cold. All the summer days he gave up his rest so you could play, study, or dream. You start to see the cracks in his back, the lines on his face, the pain he never spoke of. And you understand it was never easy. It was war. A daily war. And he won, again and again, because you’re standing here — alive, shaped, loved.

You are the outcome of his quiet victories.

And yet, we often wait too long to say it. We wait until the silence stretches, until time slips through our fingers like sand, until death makes us poets too late. Life is short; too short. And the moment we finally begin to realize how much we love someone, how much they mattered… sometimes, they’re already gone. So if there’s one thing to say, one truth to live with, it’s this:

Tell him now. Tell your father before it’s too late.

Not with grand gestures or perfect words. Just honesty.

Tell him what the world doesn’t say enough:

That you love him.

That you see him.

That you finally know how hard it was.

That you’re proud.

That he matters.

I love you, Dad. And I hope you know that... before the lights go out…