The Strength That Survives the Distance

Fellas,

You may already know the story of the prodigal son, but in case you don’t, let me lay it out.

A father had two sons. One day, the younger one came to him and asked for his share of the inheritance early. In that culture, it was the same as saying, “I want what I would get if you were dead. I am leaving.”

The father gave it to him anyway. The boy packed his things, walked out the gate, and disappeared into another life.

For a while, everything went wild and loud. The son burned through the money on parties, bad choices, and people who only loved him while the coins were flowing.

It didn’t take long before the good times ran out. The money was gone, the friends vanished, and all the confidence he once carried scattered like dust in the wind. To survive, he took the lowest job available.

Feeding pigs on a stranger’s land. For him, that wasn’t just hard labor; it was humiliation. It meant he had fallen beneath the status of the servants he once walked past without a second thought.

He was starving, so hungry that even the animal feed looked tempting. His clothes were filthy, his dignity stripped, and the silence around him only made the truth louder; the freedom he fought for had left him more trapped than ever.

And that’s when shame began doing its work. In the mud and stench, he started rehearsing a speech. Not one of apology from a son, but one of desperation from someone who no longer believed he deserved to belong.

He practiced every line, shaping it into something he hoped might convince his father to let him live in even the lowest place on the property. The only question left was whether his father would pity him enough to offer leftovers.

And when that moment finally came, when his father saw a familiar shape in the distance, he ran. He ran toward a boy who had broken his trust.

Toward someone who had walked away without a backward glance. He ran without waiting for the apology. He did not need perfect words or perfect timing. His heart moved before his pride did.

The older brother could not understand it. But the father knew love is not proved by who stays when times are easy. It is proved by who stays open when their heart feels pulled in two.

We hear the story, and the focus is usually on the son who returned. Or the older brother who stayed behind and grew bitter. But this man did something most of us cannot imagine.

He let his son go. He stood in the doorway every morning, checking the road to see if maybe, just maybe, today was the day the boy would come home. He carried a private heaviness that no one could see.

Not because he was physically alone, but because someone he loved was out of reach.

If you have ever been separated from your child, you know that feeling in your bones. You know what it is like to love someone who is not near you.

The Quietness of Fatherhood

You can be surrounded by coworkers, sitting at the dinner table, or laughing with friends, and still feel as if a part of you is drifting somewhere outside the room. You’re there, but not all the way in.

A recent survey from the Ohio State University College of Nursing found that almost two thirds of parents feel isolated at times, but for nonresidential fathers the numbers climb even higher.

The role shifts. The access changes. The warmth of daily involvement gets replaced by logistics, and the pressure to stay composed.

Many fathers describe themselves as present but peripheral. They go to work. They pay what is required. They show up when allowed.

And still, there are moments when they feel like they are standing just outside their own life, watching it move without them.

When a school email goes to the other parent as the primary contact, or when a holiday plan gets decided without your input, it reinforces the unspoken message; you are necessary for support, but optional for belonging.

When men try to talk about this, they often hit resistance.

People say, “At least you still see your kids,” or, “Other fathers have it worse,” “Just stay positive.”

And that is why this conversation matters. Because what you are feeling is real, and more importantly, it is understandable. It is the natural result of loving deeply while navigating a role that often limits how you show that love.

You are not weak for noticing it. Plenty of fathers have said they feel “present but invisible,” doing everything right, yet living with the sense that they are always one step outside the circle:

What Your Child Sees but Cannot Say

Here’s the part we underestimate. While you are carrying that private distance, your child is not blind to it. Children pick up far more than they can articulate. Even when they seem distracted, indifferent, or absorbed in their own world, they’re closely studying the atmosphere around you.

They read tone before language, tension before meaning, and silence long before they understand circumstance. And because children make sense of the world through themselves, they often assume they caused whatever they’re feeling.

While you’re thinking, “I feel distant and overwhelmed,” your child may be quietly thinking, “Dad seems upset because of me.” Two people in the same room, both caring deeply, both misreading the other.

As they get older, their understanding grows, but so does their hesitation. Teenagers in particular can sense emotional tension instantly, yet they may not know how to ask about it without fearing the answer.

They watch your face when you pick them up. They watch how heavily you exhale when plans change. They notice when you rush to reassure them or when you seem uncertain.

They may not ask, “Are you okay,” but their behavior becomes the question. Distance. Silence. Short answers. These are not signs that they do not love you. They are signs that they are trying to make sense of what they feel but cannot fully interpret.

And this is where fathers often get caught in spirals. You see your child pull away. Without context, your mind fills in the blanks.

“He does not want to be here,” or, “She is choosing the other house.” But the truth is far more complex. Children, especially in post-divorce families, carry their own load.

They may feel torn between households. They may simply be overwhelmed by everything happening around them.

The way forward

This is how silence becomes a storyteller. A missed call turns into a story about rejection. An unanswered text becomes proof you’re not wanted. A quiet car ride becomes evidence that you’re failing.

Meanwhile your child is creating their own script, equally incomplete. They may be tired, stressed, or simply growing up, but without understanding, both sides fill the gaps with fear.

This is where your leadership matters most.

Not with perfect words, but with steady honesty. A simple “I’m a little off today, but I’m glad to be with you” can stop a dozen false assumptions before they take root.

You don’t need flawless communication. You just need to stay open enough that the relationship can keep finding its way forward.

So when those quiet nights come, and they will. I want you to remember this. You may feel far from your child.

You may feel misunderstood, overlooked, or unsure of where you stand. But the story is not finished. Not even close.

The father in the parable never knew when his son would return. He didn’t know if the distance would last months or years. But he stayed steady. Just steady enough that when the moment finally came, his son found a man who had not closed his heart.

Your path may not look like his, but the principle is the same. You can’t force closeness. You cannot control timing. But you can decide who you are while you wait, hope, and build.

Your child doesn’t need a perfect man. They need a man who stays open. A man who is willing to be seen, even on the days he feels fragmented.

Because in the end, they’ll never forget what it felt like to turn around and find you still there.

Until next time,

Barkim