You Deserve to Be Seen

Fellas,

I want to be honest with you up front: this isn't a story drawn from my own experience. I haven't lived through this particular struggle. But it's something that's been brought to my attention through conversation and email.

I write a lot about fatherhood after divorce, about staying present and building connection. But lately, I’ve realized there’s another layer that doesn’t get enough attention: how the world tends to sideline Single Fatherhood stories altogether.

I’ve listened. I’ve read through forums, posts, and messages. I’ve paid attention to the men who feel like their experience is invisible not just in their homes, but in the stories society tells.

This letter is for you.

There’s an obscurity that many Single Fathers carry. Whether it’s the “Happy Mother’s Day” flyer from school sent home with your kid, assuming there’s someone else to hand it to.

Or a teacher’s note addressed to “Mrs.” as if no other parent exists. In the public narrative of parenthood, fathers have become supporting characters, extras in a play where the spotlight has long been fixed on motherhood.

And while that light has brought well-deserved recognition to mothers, it has cast deep shadows over the contributions, sacrifices, and labor of Fathers.

A recent survey from Parents magazine found that 59% of dads wish they felt more seen. Seen by the public, by institutions, even by their own children. This isn’t about ego.

It’s about identity, worth, and place in a child’s life. We are long overdue for a reckoning with how society prioritizes maternal narratives while sidelining fatherhood stories.

This isn’t merely a cultural bias it’s a structural problem that affects everything from custody arrangements to the day-to-day experience of being a dad.

Comparison Brings Camaraderie

Let’s pause here.

Imagine two fathers.

One is a full-time custodial parent.
He wakes up to cereal spills and early morning tantrums. He knows which brand of toothpaste his kid refuses to use.

He packs lunches while signing permission slips, shuffles work calls around school pick-ups, and knows the names of all the classroom aides. He’s the one writing teacher emails, scheduling doctor appointments, helping with math homework he barely remembers himself.

He folds tiny socks that somehow never match. He sets reminders for school picture day and remembers to pack extra clothes for gym. At night, he reads the same bedtime book for the seventh time because it’s a fan favorite and he voices each character like it’s opening night.

He’s not doing this because he has to. He’s doing it because he loves his children and because no one else is stepping in. But he’s tired.

The kind of tired that doesn’t go away with sleep. “Waking up at 2 A.M. because his youngest daughter had a nightmare; having a hard time getting back to sleep” because his oldest daughter, informed him earlier, he was the “WORST father in the WHOLE world.” That kind of tired!

The other? He gets alternate weekends.
He circles those days on his calendar like holidays. He counts the days until pickup, then counts down the hours once the weekend begins.

He keeps a mental inventory of which snacks are still favorites, which cartoon shows are now considered “for babies,” and whether he’s still allowed a hug in public.

He texts throughout the weeks: “How was the spelling test?” “Good luck today.”

Sometimes there’s a reply. Sometimes not. He keeps texting.

He notices the details. That his oldest son’s hoodie smells like something peculiar. He learned a new catchphrase this month. (That was “in,” last year).

He drives 60 miles to watch a 30-minute basketball game, cheering from the bleachers. He buys duplicates of his youngest son’s favorite toys, hoping to bridge the gap.

He wants every moment to matter but sometimes, it feels like trying to drink from a cup with a hole in the bottom.

Different roles. Different rhythms. But the same heartbeat.
They love their kids. They’re showing up. They’re trying.

This isn’t a contest. There’s no gold medal in parenting for who logged the most hours.

There’s just, an immense weight and the men who carry it.

When the world ignores your efforts, when it diminishes your struggles, and assumes you’re a part-time player you start to wonder if you are.

The Problems Beneath the Silence

Why It Matters Now

Fatherhood is evolving. More Dads are single parents, seeking shared/full custody, or balancing careers with deep involvement in their children’s lives.

The COVID-19 pandemic shifted many family dynamics, giving fathers a more active caregiving role. Yet society hasn’t kept up.

This imbalance matters because when fathers feel sidelined, their involvement suffers. Children lose a vital emotional resource.

And dads who want to do better often feel like they’re doing it alone, or worse, unwelcome.

Reclaiming Fatherhood Stories

Let’s Redefine the Role

One father shared on Reddit:

He didn’t stop showing up. He learned to advocate for himself, speak up at appointments, and normalize his presence. His daughter, now older, sees a father who stayed. Not just physically, but emotionally. But that role must be claimed, not assumed.

You’re not subtracting from Motherhood by adding to Fatherhood There’s room for both. The script just needs expanding.

You are not a placeholder. You are a parent. Your story deserves to be told.

And let’s be real: it’s gets hard to keep showing up when no one seems to notice that you are.

One man I came across online, wrote this:

The Cost of Being Overlooked

When men are sidelined, it doesn’t just hurt them it ripples.

Fathers who feel disposable may withdraw. They Start to believe the lie that maybe their kids are better off without them.

But they’re not.

Because when a dad walks away, even when it’s emotional rather than physical, it creates a vacuum. And kids feel it. Even if they don’t say it. Even if they don’t know how to name it.

We can’t afford to keep losing good fathers to silence.

I’m not here to pretend I know exactly what it feels like to be a Full-Time Single Dad. But I see you.

Your story deserves space. Your presence deserves recognition. Your love deserves to be told.

Let’s keep telling it.

Until next time,
Barkim

P.S. Thank you for reading, sharing, and showing up. Every time you open one of these letters, it reminds me that these stories matter and so do the men living them. I appreciate you more than you know. Archive is at the bottom. All feedback is welcome.

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