Dad,
You raised me with structure, purpose, and a clear expectation of how a man shows up. You taught me discipline, respect, and how to pursue excellence without excuse. And those things served me. In the Army, in life, in leadership—I often succeeded because of what you instilled in me.
But I want to be honest now about what I also carried away from those years. Because I’ve come to realize that lessons without emotional availability become pressure. That discipline without grace becomes criticism. And that “do as I say, not as I do” becomes a kind of quiet betrayal.
You were there. You explained things when I messed up. You made sure I understood why. You were available when I really needed you. But there was always this undertone—that I could’ve done more, been better, performed sharper. Even when I accomplished something, there was often a suggestion of how it could’ve improved. And when you layer that over a military career and a trauma-wired brain, it hardens a man. It makes pride feel dangerous. It makes vulnerability feel like weakness.
And when I joined the Army, you both went quiet. I don’t know if you didn’t understand, or just didn’t know how to engage. But your absence in those years—when I was doing and seeing things no 20-year-old should—echoed. You acted like I couldn’t be affected by it because I “chose” that path. But choosing the uniform doesn’t mean I chose the damage that came with it. And silence doesn’t erase pain.
Now, as a father, I see how some of your habits live in me. The structure. The drive. The inability to be fully present when it matters most. The passive critiques I catch myself saying before I realize I’ve turned into the voice I grew up hearing.
I’m not saying you failed me. You were doing what you thought was right—maybe what you were taught. But I’m no longer interested in perpetuating patterns just because they got us through.
I’m trying to build something new with Kamryn. And that means telling the truth about where I came from. It doesn’t mean I love you any less. It just means I’m done pretending it didn’t shape me.
You were a provider. A standard-setter.
I needed you to be more than that.
And now, I’m becoming the man who can be.
—Zachary