Fatherhood can feel like a grind sometimes. Another tantrum to calm down. Another piece of advice ignored. Another invisible effort that no one seems to notice.

It’s easy to slip into thinking of it as a burden.

But what if we chose to see it differently?

What if we saw it as a profession?

There’s a particular kind of anger that creeps in when we’re trying our best.

We’re up early. We’re present. We’re doing the work—consciously, gently, patiently. And still, one of our kids melts down because the banana broke in half. We’re met not with appreciation, but with screaming. Or silence. Or a partner who doesn’t see what we’re carrying.

In those moments, something flares. A voice inside. Sometimes it says, “Why are we even bothering?” Sometimes it’s sharper. Rage. Shame. That tight, invisible grip that makes us snap, retreat, or shut down.

Those are the demons.

Our children look to us for guidance, strength, and structure—and we cannot give them what we lack in ourselves. So, it is both our responsibility and our privilege to define fatherhood for ourselves. After all, we might be the first generation of fathers who truly have the chance to do so.

That starts with this: we have to learn how to father ourselves.

Not in some abstract or sentimental way—but in the real, practical sense. We need to create structure in our lives that isn’t built on guilt, overwork, or secondhand expectations. We need discipline that isn’t performative, strength that isn’t brittle, and honesty that isn’t laced with self-contempt. We need to be men of integrity—not perfection. And we need to be authentic in a world that often rewards the opposite.

Because here’s the truth: our kids will learn from how we live more than what we say. If we want them to grow into people who are confident, kind, and clear on who they are—we have to go first.

There’s a quiet promise many of us carry as fathers: “I want to give my kids more than I had.”

And usually, we’re not talking about stuff. Not bigger houses or shinier toys. We’re talking about presence. About patience. About emotional safety. We want to be available in a way we might not have experienced ourselves.

It’s a powerful instinct. And a generous one. But if we’re not careful, it can also become costly—especially when we try to give what we never properly received, without building the reserves to sustain it.

As fathers, we carry a deep instinct to provide. It’s part of how we love — giving our children stability, opportunity, and the best future we can offer. For generations, that meant securing the basics: food, shelter, safety. Today, it often means earning, planning, and navigating an increasingly complex world. That’s still provision. But it’s not only provision.

At the same time, a new cultural ideal has taken shape — the ever-present dad. The one who’s always around, emotionally in tune, working flexible hours, helping with homework, and somehow still meditating, deadlifting, and running a business from a kitchen table.

It’s a powerful image. And for some of us, it’s reality. But for many, it can feel more like pressure — not because we don’t want to be present, but because we’re stretched. We’re being pulled between the need to provide and the desire to be there. And when we can’t be both at once, the guilt creeps in.

But what if we stopped trying to meet someone else’s definition of fatherhood — and instead gave ourselves the freedom to define our own?

There’s a strange kind of comedy in how thoroughly unprepared you can feel even after preparing.

Prenatal classes. Parenting books. Advice from friends. Shopping lists for swaddles, bottles, blackout blinds, white noise machines. It all feels like readiness. Then, one day, you’re in a hospital, or a kitchen at 3am with a screaming baby, or in a blazing row with your partner about something as small as how to fold a muslin—and the floor drops out from under you.

There’s something humbling—maybe even disorienting—about fatherhood: we may never really know how we did.

In most areas of life, we’re used to feedback. We track progress at the gym. We get performance reviews at work. We know when we’ve nailed a presentation, hit a milestone, or messed something up. There are systems in place to measure and course-correct.

But parenting, especially fatherhood, doesn’t offer that same clarity. Our children—if we’re lucky—will outlive us. Most of their life, we won’t witness. Even while we’re both alive, much of their adult journey will unfold out of view. If we’ve built strong, open relationships, they may choose to share some of it with us. But even then, there are whole layers we won’t access. Their inner world, their silent battles, their quiet triumphs—much of it will remain their own.

And that’s hard. Not in a self-pitying way, but in an ego-check kind of way. This is likely the most important job we’ll ever do, and there’s no scoreboard, no final grade, no annual report to tell us how we’re doing. That can sting—especially for those of us who are used to feedback loops, metrics, and knowing where we stand.

By the time I got around to wiping it up, it had gone hard. I knelt on the floor, scraping crusted broccoli out of the grout with a damp cloth, and felt a wave of disbelief rise in me. This is what my life had become?

I knew, intellectually, that this was a season. That it wouldn’t always be like this. But emotionally, in that moment, it felt permanent. I couldn’t imagine a version of myself beyond the broccoli.

No one really tells you about this part of fatherhood.

Not the joyful parts — those are everywhere — but the humiliations, small and large, that come with the role. Fewer still talk about the value of being humiliated from time to time. That it’s not just suffering — it’s reshaping.

When I first read it, Kent Nerburn’s views on the different kinds of strength in Letters to My Son, really helped me clarify and understand strength in its different forms.

“Every man has a different strength. A man who chooses to live at home with aged parents, or a man who devotes himself to endless hours of labor to learn the violin or the secrets of quantum physics has a quiet strength that few will ever know. A man who masters his own desire for independence and gives himself over to being a kind and loving father is strong in a way that many others could not match, but his strength is never seen. You need to find your own strength”

Here’s the problem with the life of a Father when it comes to fitness: you’ve got limited time, a body that’s taken a few knocks, and limited motivation in the opportunities you do have to exercise.

I cast about for options. I still train jiujitsu, but can’t and won’t make it to as many sessions as I used to while my children are young. I needed activities that were fun, effective, and that meshed with Dad life. I’ll write more about the others I found another time, but here’s one I want to talk about now. Flow Rope.

Flow Rope might be the most surprisingly effective tool you’re not using (yet). Here’s why.

I’ve been a parent for five years now. And while I remember a lot—first steps, sleepy cuddles, wild tantrums—I’m amazed by how much I’ve forgotten. All the little standoffs about shoes, teeth, peas, coats… they’ve just vanished. Gone from memory like they never mattered.

And that got me thinking.

Before my second child was born, I was chatting with a jiujitsu friend of mine. He is about a year further down the '“two children road” and I was asking for his thoughts on how he was juggling training consistently and present fatherhood. He said that there is a phase when you find yourself thinking it really would be easier if you just gave up jiujitsu rather than trying to fit in a training session on a regular basis. 

Six months later, I knew what he meant. But I think this impulse applies to more than hobbies. There’s a moment some fathers talk about in hushed tones, usually after the kids are asleep, and the house is quiet enough to hear ourselves think. It sounds something like this:

“It feels easier to just give up. On training. On hobbies. On any kind of regular rhythm that was just mine.”

We’ve all been there. Our partners call us selfish (directly or subtly). We’re fuming because our partner did something selfish. Our children are so selfish. 

Everyone’s selfish.

There’s all sorts of guilt that comes with being labelled “selfish”, which is why we spend so much time and energy trying not to be.

But here’s the great news… we ARE selfish. All of us.

Read on.

Fatherhood invites us to grow, learn, and rethink what we thought we knew.

It’s not just about raising children but also about how we show up in their lives.

Here are seven books that spark new ideas and challenge us to build stronger, more intentional relationships with our children.