The Father I Couldn’t See
How a Son's Search for Strength Led Him Away from Virtue
Last week I wrote about how we live in a culture, where the general perception is that there are “Fathers, fathers everywhere, but none are good enough for me.”
Far from being apart from this tendency, it was the story of my own life and childhood, which I am documenting in the book I am currently writing on “The Path of Manliness”. This following is a passage from that book, which details the four critical roles men can take upon themselves, as a son, a brother, a husband and a father.
Having laid the groundwork in my opening article and shown how figures such as Jordan Peterson influenced where I am today in previous articles, today, I start the telling of my own story - how I set my foundation stones of relating to others as a son. And already here a spoiler alert - some of the foundation was more sand than rock.
I don’t recommend letting children read this post, as I cover issues around sexuality, which play an important role in young men’s identity formation, but unfortunately do not get spoken about nearly enough.
My Father’s Patience
My father's hands were calloused but gentle as he guided mine on the bicycle wrench. We sat in the driveway of our home, the African sun warming our backs as it climbed toward noon. I was fourteen years old, cross-legged on the concrete beside my upturned BMX, watching my father's methodical movements.
"Patience, Paul," he said, his voice soft as he showed me how to adjust the brake pads. "If you rush, you'll strip the threads. Feel how it wants to turn."
I nodded, trying to contain my frustration. Dad was always patient—with fixing things, with Mom, with my endless questions. He never raised his voice, never stormed out of a room. When I'd knock something over or break a window with an errant ball, he'd give me a look, place a hand on my shoulder, and help me clean up the mess.
The Screen vs. Reality
Later that night, after we'd washed the grease from our hands and put the tools away, it was Friday movie night. The screen was about to teach me lessons about manhood that contradicted everything I'd just witnessed in the driveway. We watched Die Hard. Bruce Willis as John Mclane—muscular, commanding, taking what he wanted—saved the day through sheer determination and will. The contrast with my gentle father couldn't have been more stark.
"Dad," I asked over breakfast the next morning, "why don't you ever get angry?"
He looked up from his newspaper, eyebrows raised. "What makes you think I don't get angry?"
"You never yell or hit things or... I don't know... take charge."
Something flickered across his face—hurt, perhaps, or concern.
"Taking charge isn't about volume, Paul. True strength isn't in dominating others."
I nodded as if I understood, but inside I was already forming a different conclusion: my father was weak.
Sacred vs Secular
This misunderstanding planted itself deep in my young mind, taking root alongside the Christian teachings from our church and home. Every Sunday, we'd sit in the wooden pews of our small Evangelical church, my parents and brother alongside of me, singing songs and listening to stories of God's love and forgiveness. My father would nod along, sometimes underlining passages in his worn Bible with a pencil. My mother and him would squeeze each other's hands.
By the time I was fifteen, I was allowing myself to drift toward a different set of values that seemed to permeate everything around me. Like a swimmer who stops fighting the current, I began letting the cultural flow carry me toward messages that felt more exciting than my father's quiet wisdom. I was becoming what I would later recognize as a 'flow boy'—someone who never develops their own sense of diretion, and thus mistakes following whatever the culture defines for his own chosen path.
At school, success meant academic achievement, material acquisition, and—as I understood from how the boys in my class spoke—sexual conquest. Magazine covers in the local bookstore showed men with perfect bodies surrounded by beautiful women. Movies reinforced the message: real men took what they wanted.
The Digital Serpent
In 1995, alone in our home study late at night, the green glow of our family computer illuminating my face, I encountered something that would fundamentally alter my understanding of myself and others. Pornography—back when the internet was still text-based, and a single image took minutes to download. The stories and images both thrilled and shamed me, but I couldn't stop returning.
What began as curiosity moved towards compulsion. One of my brother's friends had spoken about masturbation with the mocking dismissiveness teenage boys use for weighty matters. A week later, with the family gone to bed, I decided to try. "No big deal," I told myself afterward, trying to silence the voice in my conscience that knew better. But then a few days later, I was doing it again. And again.
Each time, I'd promise myself it was the last. Each time, I'd fail. What I didn't understand then was that I wasn't just viewing or imagining images—I was training my heart to see women as objects for my consumption rather than as icons of God. I was learning to find satisfaction in isolation rather than relationship, in fantasy rather than reality.
I never spoke of this struggle to anyone—certainly not to my father. Instead, I built impregnable walls of silence, grounded on shame and fortified by the pride I readily copied from the culture I was embracing.
Love, Betrayal, Anger
When Catalina entered my life at sixteen—the most beautiful girl in our church youth group—I was determined to prove my masculinity through her. I sensed my older brother was keen for her too, but I outmanoeuvred him with a ruthless competitiveness. When she finally chose me, it felt like validation of my emerging identity.
Our relationship was a storm of emotions and physical exploration that stopped just short of intercourse—for now an unbreakable taboo from my religious upbringing. But the hidden lust from my porn habit and the boiling desire created a pressure cooker inside me. When she eventually betrayed me with her boss, something in me snapped. The anger I'd never seen in my father had built to the pressure of a volcano in me, ready to erupt at a moment's notice.
My parents never knew the details about Catalina, never knew about the betrayal, never understood the source of my sudden moodiness and outbursts. I kept that pain locked inside, letting it curdle into a resentment that leaked out in ways they could neither understand nor predict. I started to refuse to go to Church and pulled away from family relationships even more.
The Airport Goodbye
By eighteen, I was ready to leave the constrictive life I had been living. I'd packed my bags for London. Standing at the airport, my father hugged me tightly.
"Find your way, son," he whispered, "but remember who you are."
I nodded distractedly, my heart curled tightly in defense around itself. I was dreaming of the money I'd make, the car I would soon be driving, the women I'd meet, the life I'd build—far from the gentle guidance I'd interpreted as weakness. The flow boy I'd become was cutting loose his roots and his achor, ready to drift wherever the current would take him, completely convinced he was steering his own course.
That was it for my story for today - the purpose of the story was simply to introduce some of the themes that play out over a lifetime in a man’s life and how insights and misperceptions we make as sons influence the kind of person we become as a brother, a husband and a father.
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When I am not writing, I run a network of online men’s groups which offer peer support for accountability in becoming a better son, brother, husband and father. If that sounds just a little interesting, next week Thursday the 26th June we are holding an open meeting which you can join if you would like. Drop me a message or sign up here: https://maniphesto.com/join-an-open-meeting/