To the Men Becoming Fathers
In honor of Father’s Day—and the quiet questions so many men are asking.
Lately, several of my male clients in their late 20s and 30s—newly partnered, newly married, or preparing for parenthood—have brought in a quiet, tender, and important question: “What kind of father will I be?”
They aren’t just concerned about logistics or financial readiness. There’s an emotional weight behind the question. These are men who were often raised by fathers who were emotionally distant, harsh, absent, or simply never asked how they were doing. And now, as they imagine being with their own children, they’re reckoning with a deeper ache: “How do I become what I never had?”
There’s a sacred vulnerability in that inquiry. A longing to break the cycle without yet having the language or blueprint to do so. It’s courageous work—and often lonely. Because for some, wanting to parent differently is to grieve, in real time, the care we never received. It means confronting your own unmet needs while trying to meet the needs of someone new.
For many of these men, the desire to be a “good man” is quietly shifting—from external performance to internal integrity. Not just being strong, but being present. Not just being reliable, but emotionally reachable.
This, too, is where patriarchy fails us. It teaches men how to provide and protect, but not how to nurture. It shames their longing to be soft with their children, to be changed and moved by love, to lead with emotion rather than control.
But emotional presence isn’t innate. It’s not something you either have or don’t. It’s practiced. It’s learned. It’s a muscle that grows in the small, consistent moments of attunement.
To be a good father, in this new paradigm, is to choose presence over perfection. It is to model curiosity over control, responsiveness over rigidity, and repair over performance. It is to become available in the ways your own father may never have been—and to know that this, in itself, is a quiet revolution.
As I’ve written previously:
This question matters—not just in partnership, but in parenting. Because being emotionally present isn’t just about feeling—it’s also about asking. Asking for love, for support, for patience. Asking for space to not always know.
Let fatherhood invite you into a deeper kind of strength—the kind that isn’t afraid to feel, or to ask to be held through the feeling. Let it soften the parts of you that had to harden too early.
To the men who have already taken the brave step of doing the unglamorous, uncomfortable work of looking inward—whether that’s in therapy, through mentorship, in communities, or simply in conversation with those they trust—thank you. You are building a different kind of legacy. One grounded not just in provision, but in presence. Not just in answers, but in the questions you’re willing to stay with.
And if you’re a man who’s been wondering whether it’s time—time to ask for help, time to untangle what’s been inherited, time to invest in your own healing—this is your permission. This is your invitation.
Healing doesn’t only happen in therapy. It can happen in friendships, in fathers’ groups, in spiritual practices, in grief rituals, or in moments of mutual honesty around a kitchen table. What matters is that you begin. What matters is that you let yourself be supported.
You won’t get it right every time. None of us do. But you can return. You can listen. You can repair. That’s what builds safety—not perfection, but presence and the willingness to stay close.
So to the men who are asking—quietly or aloud— “Will I know how to love well?” You don’t need to have the perfect answer. You just need to stay in the question.
That’s where fathering begins.
That’s where healing begins, too.