What a great post. I think all of us have a similar story tucked away in our past. But as our father’s grow old and die, we seldom feel comfortable exposing them like that. It’s a conflicting thing to contemplate. I became a father myself thirty-five years ago. And, I worked for 25 years in law enforcement, and in very high ranking positions at that. So power, and dominion over others, in some form or another, has been something I’ve had to reflect on nearly my whole life.
What I think I know, at least feel, is that power, like fatherhood, is fraught with all sorts of complexities. It is often marred by intention gone awry. Robert Penn Warren captured this reality when he wrote, “Man is conceived in sin and born in corruption and he passeth from the stink of didie to the stench of the shroud. There is always something.” The stench of our failings clings to even our noblest acts. There is always something, indeed.
As fathers, we inherit the mantle of power, sometimes unwelcome, and often shaped by the men who came before us. Like the story you shared, my own father’s legacy was not one I sought to pass down either. His intentions, I’ve now come to see, were not malicious, but his execution was often cruel, tinged with anger and imperfection. In my zeal to shield my son from those memories, I crafted a fortress around him, high and impenetrable. I worked tirelessly to be the opposite of the man who raised me. Yet, in doing so, I see now how I stripped away the fragments of goodness my father sought to convey in his fumbling way.
There is an unyielding honesty in the bad we endure. It sharpens us, sculpts us, and sometimes wounds us so deeply that we vow to spare our children at all costs. But in that vow lies a blind spot. By insulating my son from the jagged edges of my own upbringing, I denied him the tiny but luminous moments buried in the shadows—those rare instances where my father’s love emerged, raw and awkward, but genuine.
Fatherhood is, in essence, power wielded over fragile lives. It is the power to build, to shelter, to break, to heal. And yet, in all our striving to master it, there is always something. Perhaps it is inescapable: the mistakes, the blind spots, the unintended harm. We may inoculate ourselves against one evil only to unwittingly breed another. Just a thought.
I’m loving this app, the ability for writers to inspire writers, and share experiences in the process. Like therapy, only educational.
Thanks for the wonderful comment. I couldn't agree more with all of the things you've said. My mom's fourth husband (who passed away last year) was a retired Marine/Firefighter/LEO (she has a type). He and I NEVER got along when I was a kid. That's not to say we fought. We didn't. But neither did we really speak to each other more than necessary. I didn't want to "bend the knee" (not that he ever asked) and he didn't know what to do with this skinny, geeky, heavy metal listening kid who had no interest in cars or hunting.
I regret now, and have a few times over the years, that I didn't give him more of a chance. He was a good man. He tried, more than I did I think. I see that now. But, I had built my own fortress around my heart to the men in my life thanks to Paul. I've since worked to break that wall down, and I have male authority figures in my life who I love and respect and listen to (on occasion).
The key to being a human, maybe especially a dad human, is to learn from our mistakes and to get help when we need it. I've heard it said that men will LITERALLY do anything rather than get therapy.
I too am loving Substack. In the short time I've been on here I've started to make friends and meet peers, We exchange stories and learn from each other. It's pretty amazing.
Thank you for your time on my prologue. Your advice was more than excellent—it was necessary. It’s a strange blindness that falls over the words you’ve written yourself. You think you’re reading them, but you’re not. You’re reliving them. I’ll be reaching out to you again soon. It looks like the snow is about to lay us low for a day or two, and with my wife away for work next week, I’ll have uninterrupted time to feed this quiet, consuming obsession.
I thought of my son today, in your piece. I raised him alone from the time he was eleven until he left for college. It wasn’t a role I’d asked for, but it was one I stepped into with everything I had. We’re both Nashville-born, though after the divorce, I moved south to Shelbyville. It didn’t take him long to rebel against the move. He wanted Nashville—the city, the noise, the pulse of things. And, I think, he wanted to rebel against me, too, though I’d been nothing but devoted to him. Maybe my career—the weight of its authority—made me harder to reach than I realized. That’s why I felt compelled to write back.
He’s told me since that I was a good father, and just a few months ago, he said something that undid me: I’m the only person he truly trusts, the only one he knows will always have his back. I melted, of course. How could I not?
He’s married now, with a baby on the way in April. They’ve had their struggles, especially in the beginning, and he’s had his share of pain in his relationship with his mother. That’s a story I won’t touch here. But when he married, I decided not to give him advice, at least not the kind you say out loud. Instead, I offered him something quieter. I paid for counseling—for him, for his wife, for them together. I sent his therapist what was due, no strings, no judgment. It was his to make of it what he would. And he did. He leaned into it, kept going even when my year of payments ended.
He’s worked through so much—enough to be good, enough to be whole, though his mother has yet to do the same. But I know this much: he’ll be a great father.
You’re right, guys are afraid of therapy. I get it, it’s not how men are raised. But I’ve seen it’s value—its transformitive outcomes.
I'm glad my advice helped. I've been writing off and on for about 25 years (more off than on it feels like) and I've had my share of peer editors and paid editors along the way. I figured out if I was going to ask someone for their opinion, I needed to be able to receive it. Oddly enough, this is true in other areas of my life.
I'm glad you and your son have bonded again. The Good Book says that we need to raise them in the way they should go and when they grow old they shall not depart from it. I was always encouraged by that because of the "when they grow old" part. Kids in their 20s (as mine all now are) think they know everything, as a rule. Sometimes they remember early the things we teach them. I'm glad your son took advantage of your offer. That shows maturity, no matter his age.
I'm glad you reached out too. Enjoy your time alone to write and reflect. And enjoy the snow. I wish we got more of it where I am. But if we did, I'd just complain and say "I wish we didn't get as much." Such is the way of being human.
What a great post. I think all of us have a similar story tucked away in our past. But as our father’s grow old and die, we seldom feel comfortable exposing them like that. It’s a conflicting thing to contemplate. I became a father myself thirty-five years ago. And, I worked for 25 years in law enforcement, and in very high ranking positions at that. So power, and dominion over others, in some form or another, has been something I’ve had to reflect on nearly my whole life.
What I think I know, at least feel, is that power, like fatherhood, is fraught with all sorts of complexities. It is often marred by intention gone awry. Robert Penn Warren captured this reality when he wrote, “Man is conceived in sin and born in corruption and he passeth from the stink of didie to the stench of the shroud. There is always something.” The stench of our failings clings to even our noblest acts. There is always something, indeed.
As fathers, we inherit the mantle of power, sometimes unwelcome, and often shaped by the men who came before us. Like the story you shared, my own father’s legacy was not one I sought to pass down either. His intentions, I’ve now come to see, were not malicious, but his execution was often cruel, tinged with anger and imperfection. In my zeal to shield my son from those memories, I crafted a fortress around him, high and impenetrable. I worked tirelessly to be the opposite of the man who raised me. Yet, in doing so, I see now how I stripped away the fragments of goodness my father sought to convey in his fumbling way.
There is an unyielding honesty in the bad we endure. It sharpens us, sculpts us, and sometimes wounds us so deeply that we vow to spare our children at all costs. But in that vow lies a blind spot. By insulating my son from the jagged edges of my own upbringing, I denied him the tiny but luminous moments buried in the shadows—those rare instances where my father’s love emerged, raw and awkward, but genuine.
Fatherhood is, in essence, power wielded over fragile lives. It is the power to build, to shelter, to break, to heal. And yet, in all our striving to master it, there is always something. Perhaps it is inescapable: the mistakes, the blind spots, the unintended harm. We may inoculate ourselves against one evil only to unwittingly breed another. Just a thought.
I’m loving this app, the ability for writers to inspire writers, and share experiences in the process. Like therapy, only educational.
Thanks for the wonderful comment. I couldn't agree more with all of the things you've said. My mom's fourth husband (who passed away last year) was a retired Marine/Firefighter/LEO (she has a type). He and I NEVER got along when I was a kid. That's not to say we fought. We didn't. But neither did we really speak to each other more than necessary. I didn't want to "bend the knee" (not that he ever asked) and he didn't know what to do with this skinny, geeky, heavy metal listening kid who had no interest in cars or hunting.
I regret now, and have a few times over the years, that I didn't give him more of a chance. He was a good man. He tried, more than I did I think. I see that now. But, I had built my own fortress around my heart to the men in my life thanks to Paul. I've since worked to break that wall down, and I have male authority figures in my life who I love and respect and listen to (on occasion).
The key to being a human, maybe especially a dad human, is to learn from our mistakes and to get help when we need it. I've heard it said that men will LITERALLY do anything rather than get therapy.
I too am loving Substack. In the short time I've been on here I've started to make friends and meet peers, We exchange stories and learn from each other. It's pretty amazing.
Thank you for your time on my prologue. Your advice was more than excellent—it was necessary. It’s a strange blindness that falls over the words you’ve written yourself. You think you’re reading them, but you’re not. You’re reliving them. I’ll be reaching out to you again soon. It looks like the snow is about to lay us low for a day or two, and with my wife away for work next week, I’ll have uninterrupted time to feed this quiet, consuming obsession.
I thought of my son today, in your piece. I raised him alone from the time he was eleven until he left for college. It wasn’t a role I’d asked for, but it was one I stepped into with everything I had. We’re both Nashville-born, though after the divorce, I moved south to Shelbyville. It didn’t take him long to rebel against the move. He wanted Nashville—the city, the noise, the pulse of things. And, I think, he wanted to rebel against me, too, though I’d been nothing but devoted to him. Maybe my career—the weight of its authority—made me harder to reach than I realized. That’s why I felt compelled to write back.
He’s told me since that I was a good father, and just a few months ago, he said something that undid me: I’m the only person he truly trusts, the only one he knows will always have his back. I melted, of course. How could I not?
He’s married now, with a baby on the way in April. They’ve had their struggles, especially in the beginning, and he’s had his share of pain in his relationship with his mother. That’s a story I won’t touch here. But when he married, I decided not to give him advice, at least not the kind you say out loud. Instead, I offered him something quieter. I paid for counseling—for him, for his wife, for them together. I sent his therapist what was due, no strings, no judgment. It was his to make of it what he would. And he did. He leaned into it, kept going even when my year of payments ended.
He’s worked through so much—enough to be good, enough to be whole, though his mother has yet to do the same. But I know this much: he’ll be a great father.
You’re right, guys are afraid of therapy. I get it, it’s not how men are raised. But I’ve seen it’s value—its transformitive outcomes.
So happy I reached out to you.
I'm glad my advice helped. I've been writing off and on for about 25 years (more off than on it feels like) and I've had my share of peer editors and paid editors along the way. I figured out if I was going to ask someone for their opinion, I needed to be able to receive it. Oddly enough, this is true in other areas of my life.
I'm glad you and your son have bonded again. The Good Book says that we need to raise them in the way they should go and when they grow old they shall not depart from it. I was always encouraged by that because of the "when they grow old" part. Kids in their 20s (as mine all now are) think they know everything, as a rule. Sometimes they remember early the things we teach them. I'm glad your son took advantage of your offer. That shows maturity, no matter his age.
I'm glad you reached out too. Enjoy your time alone to write and reflect. And enjoy the snow. I wish we got more of it where I am. But if we did, I'd just complain and say "I wish we didn't get as much." Such is the way of being human.