I Love Being Your Dad So Much

A reflection on lineage, softness, and breaking cycles

It hit me again this morning, in the quiet weight of a sleepy cuddle—her head tucked under my chin, her breath soft and slow. I whispered it without thinking. Just truth, rising.

Because in a world that tried to teach me what fathers aren’t, I’m still learning what one can be.

I’ve been reflecting on fatherhood lately. Maybe it’s the pace of life. Maybe it’s the ache that still lives in the shadows. Maybe it’s that becoming a father made me a different kind of son. Or maybe I’ve just been holding it all a little closer—how sacred, how heavy, how holy this call is.

In these years since—almost four now—I’ve thought so much about legacy. About lineage. About the invisible blueprints our lives pass down, whether we mean to or not.

I’ve sat with questions I didn’t know I was carrying: What is she inheriting from me? What will she carry because of me? What will she need to unlearn one day?

I think often about what gets transferred in silence, not just in speech. The things we model without meaning to. How our stress shapes a room. How our presence—or our absence—writes itself into a child’s nervous system.

I’ve asked God, more than once, to give her a different kind of memory than I had. Not a flawless one. Not a fairy tale. But a memory stitched with warmth, stability, and grace. A memory that says, I was safe. I was known. I was loved loudly.

And in that same breath, I’ve carried the aching awareness of how easy it is to miss it. To be distracted. To discipline from reactivity, not discernment. To parent out of fear instead of love. To pass down wounds that don’t have her name on them.

I’ve thought a lot about the trauma I inherited—some of it obvious, some of it quiet, embedded in my very breath. And I’ve thought about the new traumas I may have already handed off, even with all my good intentions. That’s the part no one prepares you for. You can love with your whole heart and still harm by accident. Still leave marks. Still have to repent.

But I want to be the kind of father who notices. Who says, I’m sorry, without being prompted. Who learns the patterns in time to change them. Who invites accountability, not just authority.

My father—he’s been a masterclass in how not to do it. A great example of a shitty dad. That’s just the truth.

And truth-telling, I’ve learned, is one of the first steps toward healing.

Our relationship has been a cycle of distance, hope, disappointment, and distance again. He’s the kind of man who shows up only when it serves him, only when he needs something. And for years, I tried to make peace with that. Tried to excuse it, understand it, rise above it. But every time I thought we’d turned a corner, he’d remind me—this is who he chooses to be.

One of our last conversations gutted me again. I had just helped him out of a mess—paid for things no one else would cover, moved around my schedule, held space when it cost me something. And still, he found a way to belittle me. Called me names, questioned my character, threw daggers wrapped in disappointment. It was like he had to tear me down just to feel taller.

And I remember thinking—this is why the work matters. This is why I’ve been unlearning. This is why I go to therapy. This is why I read books and confess sins and talk to other men who are trying to do this thing differently. This is why I get up from failure and try again. Because I refuse to let his absence write the story of my fatherhood. Because I want to pass down peace, not pain.

But even as the sting lingered, I felt a strange steadiness rise in me.

It wasn’t pride. It wasn’t rage. It was something quieter. Truer. Like clarity. The kind that comes when you finally accept that a person may never be who you hoped they’d be—and you decide to be better anyway.

This is why I’m doing the work. Not for applause. Not for some gold star in parenting. I’m doing it because I know what it’s like to be shaped by a man who didn’t know how to love well. I know the hollowness of waiting for affirmation that never comes. I know the pain of trying to earn warmth from someone whose heart stays cold. And I know what it does to a boy—especially a Black boy—when no one teaches him how to be gentle with himself.

So now, I parent from that ache. I father with it in my bones. Not in bitterness, but in resolve.

To give my daughter what I didn’t get, even if I’m still learning how. To offer her consistency when I feel depleted. To slow down when everything in me wants to hustle past the hard. To let her see me cry, so she never thinks softness is weakness. To show her that protection isn’t loud or violent—it’s presence. It’s steadiness. It’s being there.

There’s a line I keep close to my heart: You can’t hand off what you haven’t held. So I’ve been learning to hold peace. To hold patience. To hold truth and grief at the same time. Some days I get it right. Some days I raise my voice, then sit on the floor and ask forgiveness. Some days I fall back into the patterns I swore I’d leave behind. But then she reaches for me again. And I remember: it’s not perfection she needs—it’s presence. And presence, I can give.

I want her to grow up knowing that her father enjoyed her. That I didn’t just raise her—I delighted in her. I want her to know that joy isn’t a reward, it’s a way. That love can be loud without being cruel. That men can be tender and still strong. That when I looked at her, I saw more than possibility—I saw a person. A miracle. A whole world wrapped in the skin of my child.

That’s the legacy I’m building. Not one where I’m the hero of her story, but one where I’m a faithful witness to it. One where she’ll say, My dad showed up. My dad healed. My dad tried. My dad loved well. And maybe one day, long from now, when she’s recounting her childhood, she’ll say something simple like: “My dad loved being my dad.”

Because I do.

I love being your dad so much.

---

---

Come Sit With Me

1. What are you hoping your children remember most about you?

2. Where are you doing the quiet work of breaking cycles?

3. What do you need to heal in order to father from wholeness?

---