The Decision We Made: Doing the Work, Showing Up. A Letter to Fathers

There are questions a boy learns not to ask.

Not because no one will answer, but because the asking itself may hurt too much. Where is he? Why didn’t he stay? What did I do? At some point, you bury these questions to quiet the thoughts. Never quite silent, knocking at your door during your most vulnerable moments. The questions are always there.

We learned how to be a man from everywhere our fathers were not. From uncles who showed up when they could. From coaches who saw something in us. From older guys on the block who looked out, kept us straight.

That was the experience of a generation. Not just mine. Ours.

And while we were out there searching, our mothers were holding it down. Mom didn’t sign up to do this alone, but there she was, carrying the weight, being both mom and their version of dad.

Mom leaned on the village, the grandmas, aunties, best friends, church mothers, and neighbors who recognized the gaps because they had lived them too. They built systems of care. That looked like hot meals and open doors, trusting each other with each other’s children, sharing resources without hesitation, and a phone call to check in or drop in to listen, share, and encourage each other. Moms held it down and, in doing so, held up the village.

What Happened to Our Dads

Our fathers didn’t disappear on their own.

Some were physically removed, swallowed by a system that was never designed to return them whole. Some were disconnected, present but so very far away. Still in the house, but somewhere addiction had already taken them. The stress of working jobs that didn’t pay enough, to keep the lights on, food on the table, and clean clothes on his family’s back, or the fear of the unknown, fighting to survive had consumed them.

The War on Drugs led to Black and brown communities being over policed, handed harsher & longer consequences, and a system that criminalized addiction instead of treating it. All by design? Disinvestment left communities without jobs and resources, and further away from opportunity. The help wasn’t accessible, but the harm was loud and visible; the disinvestment felt.

What we grew up in weren’t just broken homes. They were the outcomes of intentional policy that created high-stress communities with little to no resources, and an absence of fathers that has had a generational impact still felt today.

What It Did to Us

We were a generation looking for a version of a Dad to be a model of manhood to hold onto. And we found it on TV shows, sports figures, and characters in books.

In living rooms across Black and brown America, we watched fathers show up. Cliff Huxtable, James Evans Sr., Carl Winslow, and Uncle Phil were more than characters. They showed us what fatherhood could look like, flawed humans, doing their best; always present, always showing up.

There is a scene from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. If you know, you know.

Will Smith’s father, Lou, had walked back into his life, made promises, and walked right back out again. Will, trying to hold it together, unravels in front of Uncle Phil, his voice cracking, asking the question that a generation of us buried and carried in silence: How come he don’t want me, man?

And Uncle Phil didn’t say a word. He just held him.

We didn’t have language for what we were experiencing — but that scene gave us a mirror. And for some of us, it was there that we made the silent commitment: “When I’m a father, I will always be there for my kids.”

What We Decided

A generation of boys made a decision. Not in a boardroom, not in a group text, but in our most quiet, private moments. The cycle ended with us. And we’ve been working.

Fatherhood for our generation looks different. It sounds different. It feels different. And we’re changing the narrative, creating our own stories.

It looks like showing up to the classroom and the doctor’s appointment, to the hard conversation and the kitchen table for homework, doing last-minute projects, and being your child’s first client at their hair and nail shop. Changing diapers, doing drop-offs and pickups, knowing their child’s teacher by name, and being their biggest cheerleader in the stands.

It looks like healing the childhood traumas through participating in therapy, addressing the feelings of abandonment, shame, and developing tools to manage ourselves in a healthy & responsible way. 

It sounds like vulnerability. Like fathers telling their children I love you out loud, giving hugs and kisses. Sharing our fears and asking for help. Sitting in or seeking out your community of care where it’s a safe space to admit, I’m struggling and meaning it.

It feels like safety. Emotional safety, creating conditions in the home where a child can bring their whole self without fear. Your mere presence signals physical safety; a father whose presence says you are protected.

What’s Different Now

Fathers are pursuing higher education at an increasing rate, graduating from colleges and universities, and building careers that create stability and opportunity for their families. Workforce development programs are designing programs for fathers to gain skills, earn certifications, gain exposure to promising careers, and build communities of care.

Men are healing. Safe spaces are being designed specifically for Black and brown fathers. Spaces designed to heal, grow, and show up as their full selves are no longer rare. They exist. The stigma is fading. We gotta keep showing up.

Research continues to tell us that engaged parents improve outcomes. Children with involved fathers have higher graduation rates, stronger grades, and a greater sense of empathy. Communities are better when fathers are present. Schools see it. Attendance improves, behavior shifts, and academic outcomes rise when dads are actively involved. Children feel it!  Confidence! The security that comes from knowing who you are and who you come from.

The narrative around Black and brown fatherhood has shifted because we made that quiet, private decision as boys: when I’m a father, I will always be there for my kids.

The Call

We are not perfect fathers. We are intentional ones. And there is a difference.

We show up not because we have to, but because we want to. We’re still healing, still learning, still developing into the best version of the father our children need and deserve.

That quiet, private decision we made as boys, we’re living it out loud every day. We make it daily. We show up. We do the work. 

Because we chose to heal.

So to every father reading this, I see you. Other Fathers See You Too!