INTERNATIONAL MEN'S DAY SERIES 2026 | Part 3 of 6
Last week, in the second of six essays leading up to International Men’s Day, I wrote about my father and about how, as a boy, I learned to read his moods and adjust around them. I was performing long before I had a word for it.
Boys who learn that early often grow into men who are very good at managing how they come across. Many of us learned some version of the same lessons: hold it together, figure it out, don’t complain, be the one others can count on. That has real value, but strength that never lets anyone in can become a way to hide, and the people who pay for it are usually the ones closest to us.
The Armor We Wear
Most men wear some kind of armor. For some it’s humor or work. For others it’s silence, or “I’m fine.” Mine looked like control. I was the father with the plan, the one pushing his kids toward what I was sure was best for them. I believed that was leadership. Looking back, a lot of it was fear.
Armor protects us, but it also keeps people at a distance. A father can spend years being admired by his children as a provider, dependable and strong, without them ever really knowing him. Being known means letting them see the parts of us that are still unfinished, including the parts we’re not proud of.
Two Letters
Over the past several years, especially the past 21 months, I’ve done a lot of work to understand myself. Eventually, that work led me to something I had been thinking about for a long time. I wrote a letter to my son, Ryan, and another to my daughter, Katie.
I didn’t want to write an apology that says, “If I ever hurt you” (because I knew I had). So I named specific moments. In Ryan’s letter, I wrote about getting angry when he failed his driving test and shaming him when he needed help carrying a disappointment. I wrote about times on the baseball field when I let my frustration overshadow my love, in a place that should have felt like encouragement and support.
I tried to explain without excusing. My childhood and my anger may help explain some of what I did, but they don’t excuse it. I was the adult. One sentence I wrote to Ryan has stayed with me: “When fear leads a father, even love can wound.”
Katie’s letter taught me something different. Much of my anger was never aimed at her, and for a long time I let that comfort me. But as I wrote to her, “You lived in the same home.” She heard my tone, and she felt the atmosphere I helped create. I had to consider that my daughter may have become more careful and more watchful around me than a child should ever have to be, which is exactly what I had learned to do around my own father. I didn’t want to presume what she'd experienced, so I told her I wouldn’t put words in her mouth and that I wanted to hear it from her if she ever chose to tell me.
Asking for Nothing Back
The most important part of both letters may have been what I didn’t ask for. I told each of them I wasn’t writing so they would reassure me or tell me everything was fine. They didn’t owe me that, and they didn’t have to protect me from their truth. If they wanted to tell me how my anger or pressure felt, I wanted to listen. If they never wanted that conversation, I would respect it. As I wrote, “This letter isn’t meant to place another burden on you. It’s meant to remove one.”
An apology that asks for forgiveness in return is still, in a way, about us. Saying “tell me what it was like for you” and meaning it requires something else: choosing curiosity over defensiveness, even when what we hear may be hard.
Ryan and Katie seemed to appreciate their letter. I know the letters and their response don’t erase the past, and I wasn’t asking it to, but I’m grateful the door is open.
Letting Yourself Be Known
If this stirs something in you, try this this week. Think of someone you love and a moment you’ve never fully owned with them. Write it down as if you were going to send it. Name the specific moment. Own it without defending it. Then ask for nothing in return.
You may decide to send it, to have the conversation in person, or to keep it for now. Not every relationship can or should be reopened, and you know yours better than anyone. But writing it down helps you see what you’ve been carrying, and whether you’re ready to let someone see it.
Two Questions
Next week, in the fourth essay of this series, we’ll turn toward hope. After three weeks of looking honestly at the past, I want to look at what can still change.
These are the two questions I’ll be sitting with this week, and the ones we’ll explore together in There Is Still Time:
What have I been postponing that matters to me?
Who needs to hear something from me while I still have the chance to say it?
Our children don’t need fathers who never fell short. They need fathers who are willing to be known.
