Fellas,

Imagine being dropped in the desert. No clear direction. You open your eyes and the light hits you. Sharp.

The sun is sitting high, though it doesn’t feel distant. It feels close, like it’s sitting just above you, pressing straight down.

So you pick a direction and you move. You lift your head and everything around you looks the same. Endless sand, stretched flat in every direction.

It makes you question every step. You turn slowly, looking for something to orient yourself. There’s nothing.

And for a second you just stand there. Because you don’t know which way is forward. The silence makes your own breathing sound louder than it should.

You blink against the light and squint into the distance, but the horizon doesn’t give you anything back. Just heat rising off the ground, bending the air, making everything look like it’s moving when it isn’t.

And it doesn’t take long to realize… this feeling isn’t new. It’s that same thing you carry every day. Whether you’re thinking about it or not.

It’s the effort of holding steady when you don’t feel steady. Out here, it just shows up differently. Heat instead of pressure. But it’s the same weight.

The same kind that doesn’t say anything; just sits there with you. No sound except the push of wind dragging sand across sand.

No sign that you’re closer to anywhere than you were a minute ago.

Then the wind shifts hard and sand hits your face before you can react, catching your eyes and your mouth, forcing them shut.

Your mouth is dry. The kind of dry where even swallowing feels like work. Your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth.

Your lips are cracked enough that you can feel it when you press them together. You wipe your face, but it doesn’t help.

The sweat dries almost as fast as it shows up. You look out and try to lock onto something. But the horizon won’t hold still. Heat bends it. Light distorts it. What looks solid from one angle disappears when you shift your eyes.

The desert plays tricks on you. You’ll see water that isn’t there. Distance that looks shorter than it is.

Shapes that almost make sense until you get closer and realize they were never real to begin with. That’s a mirage.

You look out, and for a moment, you still see your child the way they used to be. Younger. Easier to read. Easier to reach. The version of them that responded when you called, that needed you in ways that made sense.

But that’s not who’s in front of you anymore. They’re 17 now. Closer to being an adult than a child.

And if you keep reaching for that old version of them it’s going to feel like they keep disappearing on you. That’s where the misinterpretation starts.

You call.

They don’t answer. And instantly, your mind fills the silence.

“They don’t care.”
“They’re avoiding me.”
“They don’t need me.”

That’s distance distorting what you’re seeing.

Sometimes, the truth is simpler than it feels. They’re busy. They don’t feel like talking.

Same way we don’t. But other times, it goes deeper than that. Because while you’re standing in that desert, trying to make sense of the silence, they’re somewhere else entirely.

They’re in open water. A vast ocean, still learning how to stay afloat in it. And it’s not empty out there. It’s crowded.

Massive ships moving in every direction. Expectations, identities, pressures, influences they don’t fully understand yet.

And they’re in the middle of it, trying to figure out how to move without getting pulled under.

Risk feels different. Everything feels important. And out there, those ships they’re surrounded by? At some point, they start climbing onto them. Trying things on.

Choosing directions. Stepping into identities that may or may not fit. And sometimes they’ll jump right back off.

It doesn’t matter if you’re married, divorced, separated, full-time, or every-other-weekend. At that age, damn near an adult; they’re going to make decisions you don’t agree with.

Real ones.

Now you have a choice.

Do you throw them something to grab onto?

Something that keeps them afloat while they figure it out.

Or do you jump in after them?

For a second, you can almost feel the water, the movement, the pull of it all. Like you’re right there with them.

But that’s not where you are. That’s just where your mind went.

You’re still standing here. And the desert hasn’t changed.

Your throat is dry like it’s part of you now. The sun’s been here for hours and has no intention of moving. Out here, with no sign of anything else, it’s easy to feel small.

Every option feels incomplete. Whether it’s money, family, work. Every choice leads to something else that needs to be figured out.

The air itself feels empty. No moisture. Just heat, reminding you that staying where you are isn’t an option. You stop looking for signs. You stop asking if you’re getting closer. You just walk.

You’re not scanning the horizon every few seconds anymore, hoping for something to confirm you’re headed the right way. You’re just moving.

That’s what this stage of fatherhood feels like. They’re not children anymore. They’re becoming adults.

And adults don’t respond well to control. They respond to respect. To space, and consequences. That doesn’t mean you say nothing.

It means you say less and mean more. You let them feel the weight of their decisions without removing yourself from their life in the process.

That balance; being present without overpowering; that’s where the work is now. And it’s not comfortable; because it requires you to trust a process that doesn’t give you immediate feedback.

But if you look at how things actually grow, that pattern isn’t new. Muscles break down before they rebuild stronger.

Bones reinforce under stress. Steel is heated, shaped, and tempered until it’s stronger than it was before. Nothing that becomes durable skips pressure.

Relationships don’t either. They go through friction. When you’re lost in the desert, you don’t stand still hoping it makes sense. Standing still guarantees nothing changes.

You go one way, and maybe it doesn’t lead anywhere. Now you know. You adjust. You turn. You try again.

And every step, even the wrong ones, give you something you didn’t have before.

Even when it feels like nothing is happening. Even when there’s no sign you’re getting closer. You move. That’s how you learn the terrain.

And when your child watches you move through uncertainty without breaking, you’re showing them something they’ll carry long after this moment.

That it’s okay not to know. That it’s okay to get it wrong.

And that moving forward anyway is what actually gets you somewhere.

Until next time

Barkim

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