You Blew It. Maybe

Fellas,

There’s a short story I read, that I’d like to share with you.

It starts with a man. A father. A farmer.

And like most of us, he’s just doing the best with what he’s got.

This farmer had a horse.

One morning, the horse ran away. Just disappeared over the hills.

His neighbors came over, clucked their tongues, and said, “What terrible luck.”

The farmer just shrugged. “Maybe.”

A week later, the horse came back and brought three wild horses with it.

Now the neighbors were back, wide-eyed: “You’re the luckiest man in the village!”

Again, the farmer said, “Maybe.”

His son tried riding one of the wild horses. Got thrown off. Broke his leg.

The same neighbors returned, solemn faced. “How awful. Your poor boy.”

The farmer said, “Maybe.”

A few months later, war broke out. All the village’s young men were drafted.

Except one. The boy with the broken leg.

Now, I want you to sit with that for a second.

Because if you’re anything like most separated, divorced, or non-custodial fathers, you’ve had those “this must be the end” moments.

Moments that didn’t just sting they stayed.

Maybe it was the day your child stopped answering your texts.
Or when your birthday came and went, and no one called.

Maybe it was Father’s Day. Quiet, empty and you sat with a smile that didn’t quite reach your chest. You know that ache.

It’s more than rejection. It feels like the world whispering, “You blew it.”
Like all your efforts fell short. Like maybe they never mattered.

But here’s what I want to tell you and I need you to hear this:

The story’s not over. Not even close.

The Lie Perfection Tells You

Perfection tells you the story ends with the first fall. You weren’t there one weekend? Bad father. You yelled that time? Unfit.

But perfection is a liar. And life, especially fatherhood, doesn’t work on a straight line.

It curves. It gets covered in mud. It loops back. Sometimes what looks like a curse is just a detour. Sometimes that broken leg is what keeps you close to your son one day.

If you’re a divorced or separated father, perfectionism can be a trap disguised as redemption.

You want to prove something to your kids, your ex, your family, maybe even to yourself. So you set impossible bars: “Every weekend must be magical. Every call must be wise. Every emotion must be under control.”

Make more money. Get in shape. Fix everything before you show up. We build castles out of guilt, hoping to fix the past by choreographing the present.

But castles don’t hug back. And slowly, without meaning to, you can disappear behind your own expectations.

You stop calling. You cancel the weekend. You put off the apology. Not because you don’t care but because perfection feels like a requirement.

And so connection becomes a casualty.

There’s something most men won’t say out loud:

They don’t feel like they’re doing enough.

It’s not always shame. Sometimes it’s just reflection. I’ve read it in emails from other dads trying to piece things together. Seen it in Reddit threads. And I’ve felt it in the cracks of my own fatherhood.

A couple months after my separation, my son came over and told me he’d been mad at me, even though he hadn’t shown it. He said that every time he saw a message from me, it wasn’t just a text, it was a reminder.

A reminder that his parents weren’t together anymore. That knocked the wind out of me. Not because I didn’t understand it but because I did.

I had a choice. Stop reaching out and give him space or keep calling and risk the silence. In isolation, the mind plays tricks. You start asking, what if he’s still angry and just not saying it?

You begin seeing every pause, every unread message, every dry reply as a reflection of your worth as a father. It’s easy to let that narrative take over.

But I couldn’t let silence win. So, I just kept showing up texting, calling, even when it felt one-sided. I knew one day he’d see it differently. And when he did, I wanted him to look back and see that I never stopped reaching.

You’re Not the Only One Struggling

Perfectionism thrives in isolation. And isolation is something Men know all too well especially dads navigating fatherhood outside the “traditional” mold.

Too many men think they’re the only ones falling short. The only ones who don’t know how to braid hair or manage the meltdown at bedtime. The only ones who missed the birthday call. Who feel like a guest in their child’s life.

Fatherhood can be isolating. You’re out there on your own schedule early mornings, late nights, solo Sunday afternoons while social feeds show smiling families in perfect harmony.

It’s easy to feel like the only one struggling, the only one failing. That every other dad is coaching, building, mentoring, thriving. That you’re the odd one out. But that’s not truth. That’s isolation talking.

The Power of “Maybe”

Here’s what I like about the farmer: he didn’t rush to assign meaning. He didn’t label each event “good” or “bad.” He stayed present. Open. In motion.

And that, fellas, is fatherhood done right. Not knowing exactly how it’ll unfold, but showing up anyway.

Your kid shuts down during pickup? Maybe they’re hurting, not hating. You get the silent treatment after a phone call? Maybe they’re overwhelmed.

You miss a birthday due to drama? Maybe it’s the apology and follow-up that gets remembered, not the absence.

Use “Maybe” as a Mental Brake

When shame hits “I’m failing as a Father” answer back with:

Reframe the Moment

Ask: “What else could this mean?”

Child hangs up? Don’t spiral. Pause and ask:

Legacy Isn't Instant

You don’t see fruit on the first day you plant a seed. Hell, sometimes not in the first year. But a father’s love when tended to with time, humility, and persistence it grows deep.

Now, there will be people who watch your situation from the outside, with easy opinions and no skin in the game.

“She should have full custody.” “He’s never been reliable.” “If he really cared, he’d be here more.” They don’t know what it costs you to keep showing up.

They weren’t there the night you stayed up writing a birthday card you couldn’t deliver. Don’t let the “neighbors” define the moment. Don’t let them narrate your story. You decide what it means.

If you're picking up the pieces at 40... If you're reconnecting with a 13-year-old after years apart... If you're texting your adult son after a decade of silence...

You're not behind. You’re here. And that is not nothing. You’re showing that cycles can bend. That stories can be rewritten. That legacies can be reclaimed.

Fellas, hear me: Your worst moment doesn’t define you. Neither does the absence. What matters is what you do now.

Your willingness to say, “Maybe this isn’t over yet.” And then take one step toward your child even if it’s shaky, even if it’s silent.

Because somewhere down the line, when they retell the story They won’t say, “My dad was perfect.” They’ll say, “He was there.”

And that?

That’s the kind of luck, you create.

Until next time,
Barkim

P.S.
These words don’t fix it, but hopefully they remind you you’re not crazy, and you’re not alone. Check out the Archive below for previous issues. Thanks for sticking around.

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