Dear Children,

I want to take a moment to write this letter, not just as your father, but as a man who has spent years reflecting on the mistakes I made while raising you. As I look back on my life, I see things more clearly now, and I realize that I fell short in many ways. While reading The Toxic War on Masculinity by Nancy Pearcey has opened my eyes to the ways in which I unintentionally caused you pain. This book has helped me see the generational patterns that shaped me and, unfortunately, were passed on to you.

Yelling and Creating Fear

One of the hardest truths I’ve had to face is that I yelled too much. I thought that by raising my voice, I was being a better father—after all, it was better than the way I was raised, or so I thought. My own father didn’t yell much, but he spanked us. He even used a paddle—a heavy, brutal object made of thick wood. At one point, he even drilled holes into it to reduce wind resistance, hitting so hard that it once broke on me. I carried bruises down my legs from those beatings, and in my mind, yelling felt like a lesser evil compared to that.

But the truth is, yelling only created a different kind of fear in you. A fear I never wanted you to feel. You feared me, your own father, and that breaks my heart. I wanted you to grow up to be people who could contribute to society, who could thrive and live with confidence. But instead of fostering that, I created a stressful home, and for that, I am deeply sorry. I now understand how my yelling didn’t just motivate you to clean your room or do the dishes—it made you fearful, and that was never my intent. I thought I was doing better than my father, but fear is fear, no matter how it is instilled.

Working Too Much and Being Absent

Another area where I failed you was by not being present enough. I worked two jobs for most of your childhood. My own mother worked two jobs as well, so I thought this was normal—part of providing for a family. She sacrificed so much to make sure my brother and I could get a good education, and I wanted to do the same for you. But working so much meant that I wasn’t around when you needed me. I wasn’t there to spend time with you, to be the father I should have been.

Even when I was home, I was often tired and emotionally unavailable. I now realize that no amount of financial stability can replace the time and attention a father should give to his children. I thought I was doing the right thing by working hard, but I know now that you would have benefited more from my presence than from any material comforts I could provide.

Generational Trauma and Yelling

I’ve come to understand that many of my flaws as a father stem from my own childhood and the generational trauma I inherited. Trauma, in this context, refers to deeply ingrained patterns of behavior and emotional pain passed from one generation to the next. My father never told me he loved me. He hit us, but only when we disobeyed. His punishments were harsh, and I feared him for most of my life. That fear lingered, even as I became an adult. But I convinced myself that because I didn’t beat you with a paddle, I was breaking the cycle of trauma.

I was wrong. Yelling was my version of the paddle. It was severe and unnecessary, and it created a cycle of fear that, despite my best intentions, left its mark on you. I see now that I carried the weight of my father’s treatment into my own parenting, and while I tried to break free from those patterns, I failed in some key areas.

The Pressure to Be “Good”

I wanted the best for you. When I yelled, it was often out of concern—concern that you wouldn’t grow up to be the kind of people who thrive in this world. I felt this immense responsibility to guide you, to make sure you avoided the mistakes that lead people down destructive paths. But in doing so, I applied pressure in ways that hurt you.

There was a time we were out at a resturant, and your cousin Jessica was running around the restaurant while you two sat at the table. I held you still, probably more firmly than I should have, because I didn’t want you to run wild and disrupt others. I believed that respect for others, especially in public spaces, was essential. But instead of teaching you that lesson through patience, I instilled it through force, and that wasn’t the right way. My frustration with others spilled over onto you, and I made you pay for the actions of others.

Harmful Words and Misunderstandings

I know there was a time I said something hurtful to you, something about being a “slut.” I don’t remember the exact conversation, but after talking with your mother, I realize what was said. I now understand how deeply that comment wounded you. Growing up, my own mother often called me names—“a fucking vegetable” was her go-to insult whenever I made a mistake. I didn’t realize the full weight of those words until later in life, when they still echoed in my mind, even as I sought to prove her wrong by excelling in school and life.

You should know that I never, ever thought of you that way. I don’t use that word, and I certainly don’t apply it to you. I was angry, and concerned about your friends activities and the potential impact it would have on you and I let my frustration get the best of me. For that, I am deeply, completely sorry. I understand now how such words can stay with you, shaping the way you see yourself, just as my mother’s words shaped me.

Breaking the Chain

I don’t want this generational trauma to continue. I want to be the one who breaks the chain, who stops the cycle of pain that was passed down to me and that, unfortunately, I passed down to you. I wish I had been a better father—more patient, more understanding, and more present. But I can’t go back and change the past. What I can do is tell you how deeply I love you, how much I want to have a relationship with you now, as adults.

I want you to know that I love you, and I have always loved you. Even when I was yelling, even when I was absent, even when I said hurtful things, my love for you never wavered. I didn’t always show it in the best ways, but it was always there.

Moving Forward Together

I know this letter doesn’t undo the hurt I caused, and I’m not asking you to forget the past. But if we are to move forward, we must find a way to acknowledge the pain, to label it for what it is—generational trauma, anger, fear—and then move past it. Not for my sake, but for yours. Because I want to be in your lives. I want to know you as the incredible people you’ve become. And I want to build something better for our future.

If you want to talk about this, I’m here. If you’re not ready, I understand that too. But I hope that in time, we can find a way to heal together, to reconcile, and to create a new chapter in our relationship—one built not on fear or regret, but on love, understanding, and mutual respect.

I love you both with all my heart.

Dad

Excerpt

I’ve come to realize that my love for you was often buried under mistakes I made as a father—yelling, absence, and harmful words. I want to break the cycle of generational trauma and rebuild our relationship with honesty, love, and understanding. Healing together is my deepest hope.