"Fatherhood Ain’t Silent—And Neither Am I"

Mother's Day had just passed. With two backpacks in hand, I was standing at the bus stop, my kids running around and playing with friends. I was saying hello to everyone. As I greeted a few moms, I offered a cheerful, "Happy belated Mother's Day!" and asked how their day had gone. Most replied politely, "It was fine." A few smiled and said, "Great." But others shrugged: "Ah, it's just a day," one Mom said. Another laughed, "I still had to do laundry and clean the kitchen."

Even a couple of the dads chimed in. "Man, we don't even celebrate it in our house. It's just a day." One added, "Mother's Day… Father's Day… it's all the same. We just keep it moving."

I nodded, respecting everyone's perspective. But I couldn't help but disagree. Mother's Day should be celebrated. Loudly. Tenderly. Messily. However, it shows up.

Because parenting, in any form, at any stage, is HARD. (Yeah, underlining that.) Whether you're a single parent, co-parenting through tension, figuring it out in a blended family, or just learning what it means to expect a child—you deserve a day that says, "I see you."

Raising a human isn't just about meals and milestones. It's emotional labor. It's sacrifice. It's the invisible recalibrating of your entire identity every single day. As Biggie once said: "Baby, baby."(yeah that inspired a Biggie smalls moment in my head) You are constantly becoming someone your child can lean on, look up to, and learn from—even when your cup has been empty for a long time.

It was a summer in my mid-to-late 20s, and I went back home for a family gathering. Outside, my uncles and I were grilling. Red solo cups were filled with joy and laughter(I'll pause and let some of the readers catch up here..LOL.) Out of nowhere, one uncle cracking up laughing, "You sure you can hang out this late, young buck? If Sharon calls, "I'm sending you immediately back to the house."

That's my Mom. Sharon.

Then, they started swapping stories.

"When Sharon walks in the room," one said, "I just start cleaning, picking up anything I see."

Another added, "I'm a grown-ass man, but if I'm smoking and I see her coming, I put the cigarette out—might even toss the whole pack away."

They laughed, but underneath the humor was deep respect.

These were grown men talking about my mother—a woman who commanded reverence without raising her voice. Okay, it was a slight elevation. It doesn't take much. Here it was, my mother, a woman who helped shape them long before she ever raised me. She showed up. She stayed. She didn't take any shi—(you fill in the last letter.) And right then, I understood that Mother's Day should never be another day.

I certainly understand that not every story is the same. Some wounds are still fresh. Some parents never got to show up the way they wanted to.

 But there should be a celebration where there is love, effort, and presence.

This got me thinking about Father's Day, which was just weeks away. It's much quieter and simpler. If Mother's Day is a glitter-covered brunch with mimosas, Father's Day is a "You good?" text and a Home Depot gift card to help fix something around the house. Sometimes, not even that.

Why?

Is it because we dads play it down? Is it because society told us men don't need praise? Or is it something deeper—perhaps we don't believe we deserve a big hoopla?

Maybe we've inherited silence. We watched the men in our lives, whether that's a father, uncle, or grandfather, put their heads down and go to work—rarely celebrated, rarely understood (come on now, I am speaking some truth here) Somewhere along the line, we confused being needed with being seen.

Some dads feel they'll never measure up to "Mom," so they don't even try to share the spotlight. We swallow the applause. We trade acknowledgment for expectations: Be useful, Be quiet, Don't cause trouble.

So I asked myself:

What would it look like if we believed we were worthy of celebration?

Everyone knows dads are the best superheroes on the planet. (Kidding... sort of.) But seriously—we're human. We love deeply, worry quietly, and carry stories we never tell because we don't want to be a burden.

Dads, what if we stopped waiting for permission to be proud of ourselves?

What if, this Father's Day, we asked not for applause but for presence?

Not the performative kind. It's not the big post or the staged photo shoot. But the kind that lasts, screaming, "I'm here—not only in the room but in the moment." The kind that listens. That notices. That sits with us when we don't have the words.

For our kids to see the wholeness in us—not just the rules, the routines, or the responsibilities. But the dad who stayed. The dad who tried. The dad that keeps showing up, even when he is unclear on what he is showing up with.

There is a prolonged ache in many fathers—between who we were and who we're trying to become. We feel it on quiet rides home. We feel it even more when we stay silent about what we carry.

That's why Musiq Soulchild's song "Teach Me How to Love" still hits hard with me. He sings:

"I was told the true definition of a man was to never cry, work 'til you're tired, and have to provide. Always be the rock for my fam; protect them by all means..."

And then he goes on to say:

"I keep my feelings deep inside; I channel them with my pride"(dayum..read that again slowly)

That mindset? It was taught and passed down. Work hard and don't feel. Just be needed.

However, that silence? That joker deserves to be broken like those car windows Jasmine Sullivan was singing about.

This isn't about comparing holidays. It's about making space. For the moms who carry the emotional weight of the world with grace. And the dads who do the same—but in a world that sometimes forgets we're doing it.

So this Father's Day, I'm challenging myself—and hopefully you—to stop playing it small and scream the things we usually swallow:

"I need appreciation, too."

"I'm proud of how far I've come."

"I know I don't always get it right, but damn it, I show up."

And to everyone else—moms, kids, partners, colleagues, communities:

Look around. See the quiet warriors? 

The Weekend Warrior in flip-flops at dawn.

The Grill Master General commanding the BBQ like it's battle.

 The Coffee & Carpool Dad balancing backpacks and caffeine.

The Corporate Casual Dad, tucked-in polo and all.

The Outdoorsman, multitool at the ready, thousand-yard stare in tow.

Celebrate them. 

Their confusing, beautiful, ever-evolving journey of fatherhood— or their elevation into full-blown Old Man Status. Either way, they've earned it.

The truth is that we all deserve to be seen. We all deserve to be celebrated.

The more we make space for one another, the more we teach our kids that love isn't measured in volume, gifts, or vacations.

It's measured in presence. And presence, when it's real, is the loudest kind of love there is. Maybe that's the celebration we've been needing all along dads.

Happy Father's Day, Dads. Happy Mother's Day, Moms. Happy Human Day—to every parent trying, every day, to raise good, kind children without losing themselves in the process.