Fellas,

There's a strange thing that happens when you've spent enough years being the person everybody calls.

Something breaks?

They call you.

There's a problem at work?

They bring it to you.

Something needs to be moved, fixed, paid for, figured out, handled, carried, explained, or somehow made right?

You know the drill.

Handle it.

And after enough years, being useful can become part of how you understand yourself.

Maybe that's why one of the hardest sentences for some men to say is also one of the shortest.

I need help.

Because somewhere along the way, those three words became evidence. Evidence that maybe you aren't as capable as you thought.

So instead, you keep trying. You think harder. Work longer. Read another article.

Watch another video. Lose another night's sleep turning the same problem over in your head.

Sometimes that works. Sometimes it doesn't. And when it doesn't, a strange thing can happen.

Instead of questioning the strategy, we question ourselves.

Why can't I figure this out?

I've been thinking about that question lately.

Sometimes it’s about recognizing when the problem requires another set of hands.

I believe a man should be capable.

I believe fathers should be dependable.

I believe there's tremendous value in being able to walk into a difficult situation and say:

I'll handle it.

And a strength can also become a liability when we don't know where its limits are.

Ronnie Coleman won Mr. Olympia eight times. At his peak, the man could squat and deadlift weights most of us would have trouble rolling across the floor.

Yet even a body capable of carrying that kind of weight had limits. Over the years, Coleman would undergo numerous surgeries involving his back, neck, and hips.

There's something almost obvious about that when we're talking about muscle. Nobody looks at an injured bodybuilder and says, "You know what he needs? More weight."

But that’s exactly what we do to ourselves.

At some point, strength isn't demonstrated by adding another plate. It's knowing when to put the bar down.

We carry the job that still needs something from us after we've already given it eleven hours.

The bills that keep climbing while our paycheck seems perfectly comfortable where it is.

The divorce and custody fight that follow us through emails, paperwork, attorneys, and arguments over when we'll see our own children.

The worry about our children when something seems wrong and we can't figure out how to reach them.

The fear that you’re failing in ways nobody has told you yet.

The thing we're carrying that nobody else even knows exists.

Don't wait until your life is on fire to discover who to call.

Build your bench now.

You don't need twelve disciples.

You need people who bring different kinds of wisdom, experience, and honesty into your life.

One man might be the person you call because he's been through divorce and came out the other side without becoming bitter.

Another might understand money.

Another might be the kind of father you hope to become.

Another might tell you the truth when everybody else is telling you what you want to hear.

And sometimes the person you need isn't a friend.

It's an attorney.

A financial adviser.

A coach.

A pastor.

A mechanic.

A doctor.

A therapist.

An older father whose children are twenty years ahead of yours.

This isn't about collecting people; it's about letting go of the belief that every problem has to be solved entirely on your own.

According to an ancient myth I just made up, the gods commanded every man to write down his three greatest problems before attempting to solve them;

Then beside each one, ask:

Then talk to one of them.

That's it.

You don't have to hand them the steering wheel.

Just don’t believe you're the only person allowed in the car.

This matters especially if your relationship with your child isn't where you want it to be right now.

Maybe you're arguing more than you're talking. Maybe there's tension between you. Maybe you've grown apart. Or maybe you barely speak at all.

Whatever it looks like today, even if it looks nothing like the relationship you hope to have someday.

Today's relationship does not determine what it has to become tomorrow.

That's why you need a vision longer than the current problem.

And if your child barely answers you, your immediate goal might not be:

Become close again.

That's enormous. You can't rebuild an entire relationship in a conversation, a weekend, or even a good month.

So make the target smaller.

Become the Dad your child never has to wonder about.

Give the relationship somewhere steady to stand while you work toward something better.

You'll know it's time to try something different when you start recognizing the scenery.

Same fight.

Same outcome.

Repetition without progress.

It can help to keep two clocks in mind.

The first clock is today.

What does this moment actually require from me?

A text?

A ride across town?

Maybe choosing to say nothing at all?

The second clock is ten years from now.

What kind of relationship am I trying to build with my child?

The second keeps you from handling the moment in a way you'll regret later.

If you've been trying to rebuild the relationship with your child for a year and nothing is changing, don't automatically decide:

I need to try harder.

Maybe.

Or maybe you need another perspective.

Ask somebody.

Show someone the messages. Ask a father you respect what he sees. If circumstances warrant it, talk with an appropriate professional.

Help isn't always a solution. It's simply a view of the problem from an angle you couldn't see before.

Your child doesn't need a father who can solve every problem alone.

No such father exists.

Your child needs a father capable of becoming the man the relationship requires, whether that calls for strength, patience, discipline, silence, an apology, or knowing what to let go of.

Fellas, I don't want you judging your entire relationship with your child by whatever happened this week.

One unanswered message isn't a lifetime.

One terrible conversation isn't a lifetime.

One season of distance isn't a lifetime.

And one good weekend isn't a lifetime either.

You're building something longer than that.

But I also know some of you stopped measuring this in weeks a long time ago.

Maybe it's been five years.

Five years of courtrooms, attorneys, unanswered messages, missed time with your children, and feeling like nobody with the power to change anything gives a damn about your side of the story.

I'm not going to tell that man to just be patient.

At some point, the long view has to become bigger than waiting for your circumstances to change.

Keep fighting for what matters. Keep showing up where you can. Keep the door open with your child.

But build a life you want while you wait.

Take care of your body. Do something meaningful with your time. Build friendships. Laugh again. Make plans that have nothing to do with court. Become interested in something besides the thing that's been hurting you.

None of that means you've stopped fighting for your child.

It means the fight no longer gets to have all of you.

And when you don't know the answer, don't spend six months pretending you do.

Find somebody who might help you see what you can't.

Take what’s useful.

Then make your decision.

You are still the father.

You are still carrying your own toolbox.

But not every job is a one-man job.

Until next time,

Barkim

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