You’re Just Like Your Father

I’m Nate — a husband and dad to three energetic boys, ages 7–12, currently navigating the adventure of turning 40. I’m a seminary graduate who couldn’t quite hack it as a pastor and now sells nuts and bolts for a living. I’m a coffee, dinosaur, and donut enthusiast. When I’m not hanging with my family, you can find me training for marathons and planning my next visit to a national park.

Father’s Day is a challenging holiday for me. There’s a stereotype among men who are sexually attracted to other men that most of us have “daddy issues.” Sadly, I’m not an exception. Those stereotypes don’t appear out of nowhere. The reasons vary: divorce, abuse, abandonment. A good friend of mine lost his father early in life from a freak work-related accident that turned fatal. I know another guy who has never even known his father; to him, “Dad” was little more than a question mark.

My dad doesn’t fit into any of those categories. I grew up in a “Christian-themed” family as the middle boy of four children. My parents remained married throughout my childhood and teenage years. My dad participated in father-son activities with me when I was little. He decorated my birthday cakes and carved pumpkins with us at Halloween. Today, my dad likes to remind me how proud he is of me and of the man I’ve become.

So, why do I still feel like an orphan?

Because my dad may have been technically present, but he was emotionally and spiritually absent. In many ways, he still is. It’s easy for me to grieve and see his failures.

My dad failed me by being gone a lot, absent through many of those early, formative milestones. His daily commute was four hours round-trip, a horrifying grind I can’t fathom enduring now as an adult. When we did spend time together, his attention always felt elsewhere. I have often felt unimportant and invisible to him.

My dad failed me by refusing to engage issues of my sexuality. His silence was deafening and allowed pornography to be my primary teacher.

My dad failed me by not getting help for his own mental health problems.

My dad failed me by being unable to protect me from my unhealthy, emotionally abusive mother. I often found myself acting as a marriage counselor and mediator as their relationship unraveled.

My mother’s favorite insult to me whenever she got angry was, “You’re just like your father.”

Back then, those words felt like a curse.

For many years, my father’s failures were all I could see. As I have gotten older (and spent a lot of time in therapy talking about this), I’ve been able to see the gifts that my father gave me alongside the wounds.

My dad is a very emotional man, almost to the point of ridiculous sentimentality. However, I admire that he’s never been afraid to show me or others his sensitive heart. He’s never been afraid to cry in public, or allow himself to be moved by music, movies, and stories. I’ll never forget sitting in a theater with my family watching A Walk to Remember. My dad cried more than the rest of us combined. I think his heart is a beautiful gift.

I also admire my dad’s willingness to be honest about his own failures as a man and as a father. Whenever I’ve confronted him with something painful from growing up as his son, he’s not made excuses, apologizing for his part in my upbringing.

Does that always result in positive change? Sadly, no. As an adult, I once told him that I felt like he gave up on having a relationship with me as a boy. He replied in a way that surprised me:

“You’re right, I did. I didn’t know how to relate to you.”

Having those feelings of abandonment validated by my father was deeply painful. And yet as devastating as his words were, I also appreciated the honesty.

I do believe my dad loves me, but emotional connection and love are not always the same. I’ve had to reckon with the reality that my dad simply didn’t have the capacity to give me what I needed as a boy. In many ways, I carry a father wound in my heart that he’ll never be able to fill — no matter how hard he tries. While a tragic realization, it’s been a way that I’ve learned to forgive him and move forward with some kind of relationship.

As a father myself now to three sons, I see the impossible standard I used to measure my dad. I was still asking him to meet needs that no earthly father can fully satisfy.

I pray that one day, my boys will forgive me for the inevitable ways I’ll have failed them.

But I also hope that if someone tells my sons that they’re “just like their father,” they’ll receive it as a blessing and not a curse.

Have you also heard that line that you’re “just like your father”? Where did your father fail you, and where have you seen him shine?