Fellas,

Imagine scaling a cliff. Sweat stings your eyes. Your hands are raw, feet scraping against the stone, lungs burning. The wall is steep. But something in you keeps moving; one pull, one push, one more reach for a ledge. You’re not climbing for medals or applause.

You are climbing because at the top there is light. Every step upward is fueled by hope; the hope of more stories told, more birthdays shared, and ordinary days that turn into memories.

And then you make it. You stand at the top, chest heaving, proud you didn’t quit. For a moment. Victory.

Then the descent begins. And this descent is not rock and rope; it’s the kitchen table with bills spread out, the custody schedule taped to the fridge. Coming back down does not feel like victory.

It feels like another test. That’s when it hits you. The wobble in your legs, the fear of slipping, the voice that whispers, “What if you don’t make it this time? What if every mistake you made follows you down?”

Sometimes it feels like the weight at the bottom is heavier than the push upward itself. It tells you the struggle was wasted, that your effort will never be enough.

But the climb mattered. Every time you chose to stay, every time you gave what you had, each time you tried again. That climb is Fatherhood.

The Judge

Here’s the trap; shame dresses itself up like truth. It wears a robe, holds a gavel, and convinces you it has the right to declare who you are.

A liar with a loud voice. It feeds on silence. It thrives on mistakes you refuse to forgive yourself for. Tells you that your children won’t remember the good, only the bad.

And if you listen too long, you’ll stop climbing altogether. So when that voice shows up, you answer it by doing something real.

Regret tries to chain you at the bottom. But you are not chained. The climb continues every day you choose presence over perfection.

The Next Test

Once the voice in your head loses its grip, reality throws the next challenge your way: co-parenting. If shame is the false judge, co-parenting is the crooked referee.

The game is supposed to be fair, but somehow the calls always seem to go against you. Custody schedules you didn’t choose. Decisions made without your voice. Rules that shift depending on which house your child is in.

It is easy, so easy to believe the system itself is against you. Many fathers carry the suspicion that no matter how hard they try, the deck is stacked.

That suspicion is not paranoia. The weight of double standards is not imagined; it’s lived.

In courtrooms.

Dads talk about how it feels like the whole burden is on them to prove they’re good fathers while nobody asks the same of the mothers.

One man was told flat-out by his lawyer that he already “had more custody than most,” and would “never convince a judge to grant him more” as if fairness had a ceiling.

In hearings, your calm is taken as indifference, but your passion is taken as threat. It’s the no-win box you get shoved into the moment an accusation lands. Speak firmly, and suddenly you’re “difficult,” “aggressive,” or “hard to work with,” even when all you’re doing is fighting for time with your children.

CPS workers, Lawyers and judges, whether they mean to or not, fall back on these stereotypes, and it leaves fathers stuck in a bind. Every move is suspect. The very qualities that make a Father. The fire to protect, to stay passionate, to keep pushing get twisted into negatives in a courtroom.

And yet, this is the climb. You can’t always change the referee’s calls. But you can keep playing the game with heart, and effort. And that means leaning into the role you can control.

Long after the scorekeepers forget, your child will remember who stayed on the field.

The Arena

Fatherhood is not one fight; it’s a thousand rounds in a lifelong arena. Some days you’re up against the voice in your own head, telling you the effort is wasted. Other days you’re battling the calls of a system that seems determined to push you to the sidelines.

But you are not defined by the losses you’re defined by the fact that you stay in the ring. Every hug, every “I love you pops” is a point on the scoreboard. And over time, that scoreboard tells the truth; you kept fighting, and your children knew it.

The crowd may never cheer for you, and the judges may never score the fight in your favor. But your kids? They’re watching from the corner, eyes locked on you.

They’re learning what guts looks like when you get knocked down and stand back up. Even when the system makes it hard. Fatherhood is both a battle in the ring and a climb up the rock face.

The blows leave marks, the climb leaves you bruised and exhausted.

But your children don’t measure the scars or the slips.

They measure the fact that you stayed in it.

They see the fighter who keeps standing.

The fall doesn’t define you.

The summit does.

Until next time,

Barkim

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