On Being a Dad

To write about fatherhood is something I’ve wanted to do for a very long time.

I’ve started more times than I can count—multiple notebooks, digital drafts, ideas jotted down on the backs of receipts and envelopes on my desk. But today, I’m doing it. I’m at my desk, looking north toward the mountains. The sun is shining, just as it did on the day each of my two kids was born.

I am a dad.

And to them, I’m not ‘a’ dad. I’m Dad. That small difference means the world to me.

Being Dad to my kids has been the most challenging, rewarding, humbling, and meaningful part of my life. I wouldn’t want to have lived my life without them. Still, I often wished they had come with instruction manuals—a troubleshooting guide for each, with clear answers in point form, for the hard days. But they didn’t.

So, like most of us, I’ve learned as I’ve gone along. Sometimes gracefully. Sometimes painfully. But always learning.

Today, I write with new determination; not because I have all the answers, but because I want to make sense of it all. I want to understand the experience more fully—for myself, for my kids, and for the many men who, over the years, have asked me one simple, yet powerful question: Can you help me be a good dad?

I first heard that question from a young man who had served Canada as a peacekeeper. He carried the invisible scars of trauma—the thousand-mile stare in his eyes, the way he rocked gently as he spoke, the moments when a flashback would pull him back into the horrors experienced serving his country.

He was young—bright, strong, handsome, funny, kind…and deeply, quietly wounded. Together we walked through the challenging process of healing. It was slow, painful work, but over time, something changed. The flashbacks shifted from vivid, 3D re-enactments, to something more like a black-and-white photograph in an album, high on a bookshelf. Not gone, but distant, and no longer defining him.

Then he shared something I’ll never forget. He spoke about a dream—not of returning to combat, but of building a family. He wanted to be a father. And he wanted to be present. To be loving, and to create something new from the ashes of his personal and military experiences. It was in that moment, a moment of hope and vulnerability, that he asked for help to become the father he wanted to be.

So why am I writing about this now? For the past decades I’ve heard that same question from so many other men—first responders, university students, military veterans, men living with cancer. Different backgrounds and different stories, but the same hope: to be good dads. But how? It's a question I have also asked.

As a researcher, I’ve had the privilege of asking sons and daughters (to date, more than 60) what they remember and appreciate most about growing up with a father who was present in a positive way. The answers are never about perfection. They’re about presence: Humility. Repair. Encouragement. Listening.

And then I think about my own kids–without a doubt, they are my greatest teachers. I’ve learned more about love, patience, forgiveness, presence, and growth from them than from any textbook or training I’ve ever had.

So this blog is my way of honouring that, of weaving together what I know as a physician, as someone trained in psychology, and as someone who’s sat across from hundreds of men trying to do their best. Most importantly, I honour that question as a dad who’s still learning, every day.

If you’re a dad, or want to be one, this space is for you. It’s not a manual, nor a prescription. It’s a conversation—one rooted in real stories, honest reflections, and the belief that we all have the capacity to grow into the kinds of fathers who will bring out the best in our kids, and whose kids will remember us with gratitude.

If anything I write here helps just one man become more present as a father—as Dad—then it’s worth every word.

Thanks for reading. Thanks for showing up. And welcome.