Thrown Into the Deep End

Fellas,

I can’t swim.

I grew up in Queens, New York, where every summer revolved around a public pool tucked into the neighborhood. It was free, crowded, loud, and felt like freedom.

All the kids showed up. Someone always lost a flip-flop. Someone always dared someone else to jump off the side. And yes, there were kids peeing in the pool. Everyone knew it.

That’s where it happened. An older “gentleman” from the neighborhood decided it was time I learned how to swim. 

His method was simple. He picked me up over his head and threw me into the pool.

I went under. I panicked. I swallowed water. And something locked in place that day. From that moment on, water didn’t feel neutral.

It felt hostile. Even standing at the edge of a pool, my body remembered before my mind could argue otherwise.

Years later, after I moved from Queens to Jersey, I decided to try again. A friend offered to teach me.

He did everything the “right” way. And still, I couldn’t do it. My body locked up. My brain shut down. He wasn’t a professional, but he meant well.

He stayed close and watched me. But I didn’t need someone watching more closely.

I needed someone who understood what had already happened to me in the water. That distinction matters, because it shows up everywhere in systems designed to protect.

Most people working in child welfare are not villains. Many, if not all are overworked, and asked to make decisions inside emotionally volatile situations with incomplete information and enormous pressure.

Without them, many children would be left truly unsafe. But systems don’t only respond to danger. They respond to perception. To fear of being wrong.

And sometimes, those systems are pulled into family conflicts where harm is assumed rather than proven. Good men end up paying a price they did not earn.

That’s where supervised visitation enters the story. On paper, supervision is meant to keep children safe. In reality, it often shows up when fear, uncertainty, and worst-case thinking replace clarity.

A father doesn’t have to be dangerous to be treated as a risk. He only has to be accused. The danger comes when the people in charge don’t fully understand the situation they’re responding to. That’s how a man can go from being a parent to being watched, evaluated, and slowly disconnected.

The Room

The room is too bright. Fluorescent lights hum overhead. The toys are clean but unfamiliar. Plastic bins. A rug that smells like disinfectant. Nothing here belongs to anyone.

A woman sits in the corner with a clipboard. Smiling. Watching. Writing.

The father sits on the floor. He builds the tower his child asks for. Red. Blue. Yellow.

Every movement feels graded. Every motion measured. Every laugh borrowed.

The child doesn’t understand the glass between them. They just feel it. The stiffness. The pauses. The way their father isn’t fully at ease. 

Halfway through the visit, the child asks, “Why can’t I come to your house?” There’s no good answer. The truth sounds like blame, and systems don’t make sense to children.

“I’m working on it,” he says. The child nods. The clock keeps moving. When the visit ends, the woman thanks him for his cooperation. His child is led away.

He sits alone for a moment longer, hands still on the carpet, trying to remember how to trust instincts he once used without thinking. How could this ever be counted as a good visit?

Nothing about it felt natural. Nothing about it felt like parenting. He does everything he’s asked to do.

He shows up on time. He speaks carefully. He stays within the lines. He complies fully, visibly. And yet nothing loosens. Nothing returns. The rules remain, no longer temporary, but a condition.

That’s when another truth begins to surface. This isn’t about danger anymore. It’s about designation. Once a system labels someone as a risk, even a theoretical one, compliance becomes maintenance rather than progress.

You’re not proving safety. You are preserving access.

In many cases, that label originates with a restraining order. In most states, restraining orders can be issued quickly. Sometimes on the same day filed.

Even without the accused present; based on sworn statements alone, pending a later hearing.

From that moment forward, every custody decision is filtered through the existence of that order. At first, they are framed as temporary. Protective. Administrative.

But the consequences are immediate. Restraining orders are civil but violating them is criminal. Miss a detail. Misinterpret a boundary.

Respond to a message you shouldn’t have. Show up where you believed you were allowed to be.

Intent doesn’t matter nearly as much as compliance. And once a violation is alleged, the situation changes categories. Now it’s not about family court. It’s about criminal investigation.

Men who were never charged with a crime find themselves arrested. Not because they were dangerous. But because they underestimated how serious these orders are.

If you are dealing with supervision, orders, or court involvement, you cannot afford to drift. You cannot assume time will fix it.

You cannot assume good intentions will protect you. Men assume that because they know they’re not dangerous, the system will eventually see it too.

But systems don’t operate on personal truth. What saves you is understanding the environment you’re in.

And most importantly, knowing that silence and delay can turn manageable situations into permanent ones.

Protect your relationship with your child by protecting yourself legally. Take every order seriously. Ask questions early. Get guidance. Do not wait and hope it resolves on its own.

Because once the system escalates a temporary measure becomes a permanent shadow.

And the cost is not just legal. It’s the shape of your future.

Until next time

Barkim