Fatherhood is a movement stepping fully into its responsibility.

For more than two decades, Fathers Incorporated has operated from a simple truth: Fatherhood is not a private issue confined to households but a public good with societal consequences. In 2025, that belief was no longer aspirational. It was measurable.

By Kenneth Braswell, CEO, Fathers Incorporated

For years, fatherhood work has lived in a strange tension. Everyone agrees fathers matter, yet the systems designed to support families often treat fathers as optional, secondary, or invisible.

The language shifts. The priorities change. The headlines come and go. But the underlying question remains unresolved: Are we serious about strengthening families, or are we simply managing the consequences of fractured systems?

In 2025, Fathers Incorporated (FI) chose not to debate that question anymore. We answered it.

This past year marked a turning point, not because fatherhood suddenly became fashionable, but because the work matured beyond symbolism. Beyond pilot projects. Beyond conversations that never quite reached policy, practice, or culture at scale. What unfolded in 2025 was not a collection of isolated wins. It was alignment. It was infrastructure meeting intention. It was data meeting lived experience.

Fatherhood is a movement stepping fully into its responsibility.

For more than two decades, FI has operated from a simple truth: Fatherhood is not a private issue confined to households but a public good with societal consequences. In 2025, that belief was no longer aspirational. It was measurable.

At the national level, FI’s continued stewardship of the National Responsible Fatherhood Clearinghouse (NRFC) made one thing unmistakably clear: There is demand for serious fatherhood infrastructure. More than 200,000 people accessed fatherhood.gov this year, generating nearly half a million pageviews across all 50 states. These were not casual visitors. Engagement rates exceeded 97 percent, far surpassing typical public-sector benchmarks. People did not skim. They stayed, searched, and returned.

This level of engagement matters because it reflects trust. Fathers seeking guidance. Practitioners seeking evidence. Policymakers seeking clarity. The NRFC is no longer simply a repository of information; it is an operating system for the field. Its Virtual Collaborative Community grew to nearly 2,000 verified stakeholders — researchers, grantees, advocates, and public servants — who actively exchange insights rather than reinvent the wheel in isolation.

For a field that has historically been fragmented, this matters. You cannot scale impact when everyone is working alone.

But data alone does not change behavior. Messaging does.

That is why the NRFC’s national fatherhood media campaign, carried forward in partnership with the Ad Council, marked one of the most consequential achievements of 2025. The campaign reached every U.S. media market, delivering more than 1.28 billion donated media impressions in a single fiscal year. The donated media value exceeded $37 million this year alone, bringing the lifetime total to over $600 million, with a return on investment more than five times the industry benchmark.

Yet the most important outcome was not reach. It was response.

Two-thirds of fathers nationwide reported exposure to campaign messaging. Among those fathers, nearly two-thirds took action to increase their involvement with their children. They talked more. They showed up differently. They sought information. Fathers exposed to the campaign were more than twice as likely to engage intentionally at home as those who were not.

This is what happens when fathers are spoken to with respect instead of suspicion, with invitation instead of indictment.

At the community level, 2025 revealed another truth that too often gets lost in policy debates: National messaging only works when local systems are ready to receive it. FI’s Gentle Warriors Academy (GWA) demonstrated what that readiness looks like in practice.

This year, GWA produced some of the largest cohorts in its history, including record-setting graduations in Metro Atlanta and within the Fulton County Jail.

One cohort alone saw more than 100 fathers complete our fatherhood program — men navigating incarceration, reentry, employment instability, fractured relationships, and legal barriers. They did not graduate because it was easy. They graduated because someone finally invested in them as whole human beings.

An independent evaluation confirmed what participants articulated long before surveys could measure it: Parental well-being improved significantly. This finding deserves attention. Too often, fatherhood programs are judged solely on immediate behavioral change, without acknowledging the emotional destabilization many fathers carry into the room. Stability precedes consistency. Healing precedes habit. Confidence precedes connection.

If we are serious about long-term outcomes for children, we must be serious about the internal lives of fathers.

2025 was also a year when fatherhood stopped asking quietly to be included in civic life and instead claimed its seat openly. The 20th Anniversary of the Million Fathers March (MFM) represented this shift in full view. What began two decades ago as a single act of presence now spans more than 20 states and over 50 cities. Across the country, children walked into schools with their fathers beside them, an image that should never feel radical, yet still does in far too many communities.

The MFM has endured because it does something rare in social change work: it asks for visibility without spectacle. Accountability without shame. Presence without performance. In 2025, it stood as living evidence that when fathers are invited into public spaces with dignity, they come.

Policy leadership followed the same arc. Throughout the year, FI played an active role in Georgia’s Legislative Study Committee on Legitimation, elevating voices that are often reduced to case numbers. Fathers who were present at birth, listed on birth certificates, and active in their children’s lives shared what it means to have no legal standing. No say in education. No authority in medical decisions. No guaranteed access.

The problem with legitimation has never been technical. It has always been moral.

Through testimony, research, and sustained advocacy for legitimation reform, FI helped reframe legitimation not as a procedural inconvenience, but as a question of whether our systems actually reflect what we claim to value: family stability, child well-being, and fairness. This conversation is not finished, but it is no longer avoidable.

The narrative change amplified this work far beyond committee rooms. In 2025, op-eds published in major outlets challenged the dominant framing of “father absence” by asking harder questions: What systems block fathers from showing up? What trauma goes unaddressed? What assumptions do we refuse to interrogate because blame feels easier than complexity?

Those pieces did not offer comfort. They offered clarity.

Culturally, the work expanded in ways that would have seemed unlikely even a decade ago. Strategic partnerships with national brands, documentary collaborations, podcasts, and long-form storytelling carried fatherhood into conversations about health, masculinity, aging, justice, and legacy. Millions of people encountered fatherhood not as a deficit narrative, but as a site of resilience, responsibility, and growth.

This matters because culture shapes policy long before laws are written.

Across every domain — national infrastructure, local programming, media, policy, and movement-building — 2025 revealed a consistent pattern. When fathers are treated as essential rather than expendable, outcomes improve. Families stabilize. Children benefit. Communities gain strength rather than manage loss.

The lesson of 2025 is not that fatherhood work needs more passion. It needs alignment. Between data and dignity. Between policy and practice. Between what we say we value and what we fund, build, and protect.

FI did not “solve” fatherhood in 2025. No organization could. But we did move the work out of the margins and into systems that last. We stopped asking for permission to belong in conversations about family well-being and instead accepted the responsibility that comes with leadership.

Fatherhood is not a trend. It is infrastructure.

And in 2025, that infrastructure finally began to look like something the nation can rely on.

By Kenneth Braswell, CEO, Fathers Incorporated

A 2025 article published in The New York Times does something rare in modern discourse about gender. It slows the conversation down long enough to notice a pattern many families and communities feel but struggle to name.

In “What Happens When Most of the Adults in Boys’ Lives Are Women,” reporter Claire Cain Miller names a reality many educators, parents, and community leaders recognize instinctively: Boys are growing up with fewer consistent relationships with adult men, particularly in schools, youth programs, and other formative spaces. Miller highlights long waitlists for mentoring programs, the gender imbalance in education and caregiving professions, and the developmental consequences of limited male presence. And while Miller’s observations are valid, a larger context must accompany them if we are serious about solutions.

At Fathers Incorporated and across the responsible fatherhood field more broadly, we begin from a different premise. Parents are the first mentors of their children. Fathers, specifically, play a critical and irreplaceable role in that mentorship, regardless of household structure.

Before a child ever meets a teacher, coach, or volunteer mentor, they are already absorbing lessons about identity, responsibility, trust, and belonging at home. Any national conversation about boys and men that does not center fatherhood risks misdiagnosing the problem and misdirecting the response.

Mentorship matters. The work of mentoring organizations is admirable and necessary. Thousands of dedicated volunteers show up every day to support young people, often filling gaps created by economic strain, policy failure, or community disinvestment. But mentorship programs should never be framed, implicitly or explicitly, as substitutes for fathers or as evidence that fathers, as a group, are absent. That narrative is inaccurate and harmful. It reinforces a societal assumption that male absence is the norm and that external programs must serve as saviors for children, particularly those raised in single-parent households.

The existence of single-parent households is not an indicator of a lack of father involvement. This distinction is essential and too often ignored. Many fathers are deeply engaged in their children’s lives even when they do not reside in the same home. They attend school events, provide financial and emotional support, participate in caregiving, and remain active decision-makers. When public discourse collapses single-parent households into narratives of father absence, it erases these men and undermines the engagement we claim to want.

The New York Times article points to schools and youth-serving institutions as primary sites where boys lack exposure to men. That observation is accurate, but it is incomplete without acknowledging how cultural narratives about fathers shape those institutions. When society assumes fathers are peripheral, systems are designed without them in mind. Schools fail to engage fathers meaningfully. Social services communicate primarily with mothers. Policies default to maternal caregiving. Over time, this exclusion becomes self-fulfilling, not because fathers do not care, but because they are not invited, expected, or supported to participate fully.

Responsible fatherhood work exists to interrupt that cycle. It is not about defending men against criticism, nor is it about romanticizing fatherhood. It is about equipping fathers with the skills, support, and opportunity to be present and effective in their children’s lives. It recognizes that healthy masculinity is not taught through slogans, but through daily interaction. Boys learn manhood by watching how their fathers handle stress, treat partners, resolve conflict, and show care. Girls learn what to expect from men by observing how fathers show up, communicate respect, and model accountability.

This is why framing mentorship as a corrective for father absence must be handled with care. When mentoring programs are positioned as replacements for fathers rather than complements to parental involvement, they unintentionally reinforce a deficit narrative. They suggest that communities should plan around absent fathers rather than invest in support for present ones. They risk absolving systems of responsibility to engage fathers meaningfully, shifting the burden to volunteers while leaving structural barriers intact.

The article notes that men are underrepresented in education and caregiving professions and that boys respond differently when they encounter emotionally engaged male adults. That insight aligns with what fatherhood practitioners have long understood. Boys benefit from seeing men in nurturing, instructional, and relational roles. It begins by redefining how society values caregiving and invites men into those roles, starting with fatherhood itself.

Historically, gender roles in work and family life were rigidly defined. Professions were explicitly coded male or female, sometimes even listed as such in newspaper job classifications. Men were expected to produce. Women were expected to nurture. As women rightly gained access to education and professional opportunities, those boundaries shifted. What did not shift at the same pace was the cultural expectation that men should also be nurturers. Nor did workplace policies or institutional cultures adapt to support men in caregiving roles without penalty or suspicion.

Today’s data on boys’ academic struggles and men’s disengagement from certain institutions must be read through that historical lens. These outcomes are not indictments of boys or men. They are the downstream effects of systems that evolved unevenly. When men are socialized to equate worth with earnings and independence, caregiving roles appear risky or incompatible with masculine identity. When institutions treat male involvement as optional rather than essential, engagement declines.

Responsible fatherhood addresses this by reframing masculinity itself. Healthy masculinity is not the absence of care. It is the disciplined presence of responsibility. Fathers who are supported, skilled, and confident in their role are more likely to engage with schools, mentor their children directly, and serve as visible models of balanced manhood. This benefits boys by providing continuity and girls by shaping healthy expectations of men.

The New York Times article correctly avoids blaming women for filling caregiving gaps. Women have carried disproportionate responsibility for generations, often without adequate support. The issue is not female presence. It is male exclusion. And exclusion, whether intentional or not, has consequences. When boys rarely see men teaching, listening, or nurturing, they internalize narrow scripts about masculinity. When girls rarely see men in those roles, their understanding of partnership and leadership is constrained.

We must also resist the temptation to frame this moment as a crisis that pits boys against girls. Gender equity is not a zero-sum equation. Supporting boys does not undermine girls. Engaging fathers does not diminish mothers. In fact, families function best when caregiving and authority are shared responsibilities. Children benefit from multiple models of adulthood, not from a single narrative.

Mentorship programs remain vital. They offer additional layers of support, exposure, and guidance. At their best, they reinforce what children are learning at home. But they cannot and should not be asked to carry the full weight of male engagement. That responsibility belongs first to families, supported by institutions that recognize fathers as assets rather than afterthoughts.

Policy matters here. Paid parental leave that includes fathers communicates that caregiving is a shared responsibility. Father-inclusive school engagement strategies signal that men belong in educational spaces. Workforce policies that allow flexibility without stigma make presence possible. Training programs that prepare fathers for co-parenting, communication, and conflict resolution strengthen families from the inside out.

The danger of omitting responsible fatherhood from this conversation is subtle but significant. Without it, we risk normalizing the idea that fathers are optional and that community programs must compensate for their absence. That narrative discourages engagement, undermines accountability, and ultimately fails children.

Fathers are not a problem to be solved. They are a solution to be supported. Parents are not peripheral to mentorship. They are its foundation. When fathers are equipped to be effective mentors to their own children, the demand placed on external systems decreases, and the quality of those systems improves.

Understanding how we arrived at current disparities requires honesty, not blame. Moving toward true gender equity requires intention, not nostalgia. Equalizing opportunity, expectation, and relevance across gender lines means recognizing that fatherhood is not merely a private role, but a public good.

The New York Times article opens an important conversation about boys and men. The responsible fatherhood field adds the missing context: The most powerful mentors are already in children’s lives, and our collective task is to ensure they are supported, engaged, and uplifted — not erased — by the stories we tell about families.

The question before us is not whether mentorship matters. It does. The deeper question is whether we are willing to invest in fathers as the first mentors of their children and to stop conflating household structure with parental involvement. If we are serious about boys, serious about girls, and serious about equity, that is where the work must begin.

By Kenneth Braswell, CEO, Fathers Incorporated

Of all the legislation passed in Georgia in the last couple of years, one act continues to sit at the center of kitchen-table conversations: the Squatters Act. It passed in 2024, quietly for some, loudly for others. We’re revisiting it because housing remains one of the most unpredictable, life-shaping forces in this state. It’s the difference between stability and strain, between a family holding on and a family slipping through the cracks.

When I talk to fathers across Atlanta, I hear the same undercurrent in their stories. They’re not just looking for a place to sleep. They’re trying to build a foundation firm enough to stand on. They’re trying to stay close to their children. They’re trying to honor commitments while fighting battles that don’t always show up on paper. And when a law like the Squatters Act moves through the system, it shifts the ground under those efforts in ways most people never see.

This law gives property owners a faster path to reclaiming property from people living there without permission. In many ways, it brings clarity to a situation that can be confusing and, at times, unfair. For men who own their homes or sign proper leases, then return from work to find someone living in their property, this law offers a process that doesn’t take months or years to resolve.

But the fathers we serve often live in a different reality — one shaped by informal housing, temporary arrangements, and verbal agreements made in moments of trust or necessity. They stay with family during transitions. They move in with a co-parent, hoping to rebuild. They rent rooms in cash from people trying to survive just like they are. They bounce between couches because a new job hasn’t stabilized yet, child support ate into the month’s rent, or a relationship that felt promising last week fell apart overnight.

Those are the fathers who feel the pressure of Georgia’s Squatters Act the most.

Because once that citation is issued, the clock starts ticking. Three business days to prove you belong. Seven days for a hearing that can determine whether you stay or go. And if the documents look wrong — or weren’t properly executed by someone else — you could face consequences that go far beyond eviction.

That is why this conversation isn’t about politics. It’s about fathers who are doing their best to hold on to their children while navigating a housing landscape that has become harder, faster, and less forgiving. It’s about men who can lose access to their kids, not because they don’t care, but because the law moved quicker than their circumstances could.

Housing remains at the top of Georgia’s challenges, especially in Atlanta, where rents rise faster than wages and where fathers with limited income face shrinking options. The Squatters Act didn’t create this reality, but it did create new urgency. A father who loses his home loses more than shelter. He loses the place where he teaches his child how to tie a shoe, finish homework, or dream bigger than the block they live on. He loses the sense of being rooted. He loses access. He loses dignity.

But here’s the part that keeps me going: None of this is inevitable. We can help fathers understand the documentation they need. We can prepare them for questions the police will ask. We can teach them what “lawful occupancy” actually means. We can guide them before the moment of crisis arrives. And we can make sure they don’t face these challenges alone.

Fathers Incorporated was built for moments like this — moments when laws change faster than lives do and people need someone who understands the emotional and practical realities tucked beneath the legal language. Our role is to help fathers stay steady when the system shifts around them. To keep them close to their children. To make sure the bond between parent and child doesn’t get lost in the shuffle of forms, hearings, citations, and deadlines.

The Squatters Act passed in 2024, but the story didn’t end there. Housing remains a priority, a pressure point, and a crossroads for thousands of fathers across the state. As long as families are navigating these challenges, we will keep speaking into the spaces where policy meets real life.

And we will keep standing beside the men who are trying every day to be present for their children, even when the ground beneath them moves.

By Kenneth Braswell, CEO, Fathers Incorporated

One Year Later: Still Standing in His Shadow

On December 26, 2024, we lost a giant.

Lawrence Wilbon wasn’t just part of the team at Fathers Incorporated: He was a pillar. A force. A brother.

One year later, we still feel the silence.

But we also feel something else. Movement. Purpose. Echo. Lawrence didn’t just live. He led. And in leading, he left behind more than memories. He left instruction.

The Rhythm of Lawrence Wilbon’s Leadership

Lawrence never chased the spotlight. That wasn’t his style. He was a quiet thunder: steady, dependable, and deeply rooted in purpose. He showed us that leadership wasn’t about being loud. It was about being present. About showing up, over and over again, especially when it was inconvenient. Especially when it was hard.

He loved people through action and served with humility.

He reminded us that love is a verb. Faith, he’d say, was something you walked out with your boots on the ground. And from lifting fathers to strengthening families, from building systems to planting seeds, Lawrence gave everything he had, without asking anything in return.

A Legacy That Walks With Us

There’s a line from the song we wrote in his honor — “We’re Missing the Force of the L” — that captures the depth of our grief and our gratitude:

“Now heaven holds what earth can’t keep, but your legacy still lives in me.”

That legacy is real. It’s visible in our work. It’s alive in the men he mentored, the children he protected, and the systems he helped us build.

His presence still walks through every open door at Fathers Incorporated.

He left fingerprints on every part of this organization, and every time we take a bold step toward healing, justice, and responsible fatherhood, we feel him pushing us forward.

To Fathers: Pick Up the Mantle

To every father reading this — stand up. Be the protector. Be the builder. Be the steady hand your family can count on.

Lawrence showed us what it looks like to hold the line. Now, we carry his torch.

Don’t wait for permission to love loudly. Don’t hold back your presence. Your family doesn’t need perfection. They need you present. They need you committed. They need you there.

And to the brothers in the circle Lawrence left behind — remember the weight we now carry together. Not as a burden, but as a calling. Let’s keep each other lifted. Let’s lead like Lawrence did, not with ego, but with purpose.

To All of Us: Be Bold. Be Unapologetic. Be Right.

Lawrence’s voice still rings in my head. He’d always say, “Bro, you killed it.” And what he meant was, You stood in your purpose today. You didn’t shrink. You used your voice.

So let this be the charge: Be bold. Be unapologetic. And stand for what’s right, not what’s convenient.

That’s how Lawrence lived, that’s how he led, and that’s how we honor him.

Rest Now, Faithful Servant

“You didn’t leave us empty-handed. You left instructions in your walk.”

Lawrence Wilbon finished strong. His watch is done.

But ours is not. We won’t let the work fall. We won’t let the fire fade.

His force still moves through us — every single day.

Rest now, my brother. We’ll carry the force until we meet again.

We’re Missing the Force of the “L” – A Tribute to Lawrence Wilbon

The first months of fatherhood arrive like weather: beautiful, unpredictable, and bigger than your jacket. You’re learning what a brand new person needs, protecting a partner you love, and discovering that showing up well is the most powerful thing you can do. That’s why we created Supporting Mom through Pregnancy, Delivery, and Postpartum: Tips for Dads in our work with the National Responsible Fatherhood Clearinghouse (NRFC) — to help you turn love into steps, to turn steps into confidence.

Here’s the big idea: Mothers and babies do better when fathers are informed, present, and ready. Most pregnancy-related deaths are preventable (80 percent, according to the CDC), and nearly two-thirds of these deaths (as reported by The Commonwealth Fund) occur after the baby is born, when everyone assumes the hard part is over. In addition, in many rural areas, research shows that moms must travel 30 miles or more for perinatal care.

Fathers can’t fix every structural barrier, but we can lower the everyday friction — rides, reminders, rest, and advocacy — and notice red flags early. This vigilance saves lives.

Fathers’ Role in the Pregnancy, Delivery, and Postpartum Periods

So what does “showing up” look like?

Before the birth, go to a prenatal class and learn the stages of labor, feeding options, and what helps Mom feel safe. This is not extra credit; it’s game film for the biggest day of your life. Prioritize healthy routines together — walks and meals, for example, and no smoking or alcohol — and check in on your own mental health as responsibilities ramp up.
During labor, know the birth plan and be Mom’s advocate. Ask clear questions, repeat her preferences when pain makes words hard, and offer comfort — steady breathing, gentle touch, calm room, and kind words. You are not a bystander; you are part of the care team.
In the weeks after delivery, protect recovery. Handle night feedings with pumped milk or formula, wash bottles and pump parts, change diapers, cook, and manage visitors. Watch for warning signs like heavy bleeding, fever, intense pain, and mood changes, and call the healthcare provider if something seems off. In addition, learn the basics of infant development so you can spot milestones and concerns early.

Feeding matters, and so does support. If Mom is breastfeeding, your job is to make it easier. Offer snacks, water, a clean setup, and encouragement when it’s frustrating. If she’s bottle-feeding, share the nights so her body can heal. In every scenario, your steady presence lowers stress hormones that can affect milk supply, wound healing, and mood.

And Dad, your health matters, too. Expectant fathers can experience hormonal shifts and even “sympathetic pregnancy” symptoms, such as mood swings, anxiety, and irritability. Some dads even face postpartum depression. None of this means you’re failing: It means you’re human. Name it early and get support so you can keep showing up strong.

If you live far from services, think “whole team.” Learn what’s available locally — midwives, lactation consultants, and doulas — and sketch a transportation plan before labor starts. Programs like Dads to Doulas can prepare fathers to be hands-on partners from the first contraction to the fourth trimester. Virtual support groups and telehealth can fill gaps when distance and schedules get in the way.

Two quick, practical lifelines from the NRFC “Supporting Mom” brief:

For low-cost prenatal care, call 1-800-311-BABY (Spanish: 1-800-504-7081).
For father-focused help, contact the NRFC Help Center at 1-877-4-DAD-411 and explore free fatherhood resources on Fatherhood.gov.

The brief and the Help Center are key pieces in Fathers Incorporated’s 16-year effort to expand the responsible fatherhood field’s practical tools — tips researchers can study, practitioners can reference, and dads can put to work.

The early days of a child’s life set a rhythm for the family. When fathers learn, plan, advocate, and rest with intention, moms recover better, babies thrive, and the whole house breathes easier.

Show up. Ask questions. Carry the load you can carry. Guard the rest and watch the signs. Put the helplines in your phone. And remember, your baby doesn’t need a perfect dad — your baby needs you, present and prepared.

By Kenneth Braswell, CEO, Fathers Incorporated

I can’t recall many times when my family sat together just to tell stories, at least not the kind that trace where we came from or how our name found its way into the world. Our conversations were mostly about what was happening right then — what bills were due, who got a new job, who was sick, who needed prayer. These family stories were practical and necessary, but rarely historical. Generational storytelling that knits generations together just wasn’t something we did.

Our family wasn’t built around those circles of recollection that you hear about — evenings when elders gather children close and tell tales about who loved who, who sacrificed what, or how we survived what should’ve destroyed us. Maybe it’s because my mother left her hometown when she was young, and we moved to a city where family was more of an idea than a network. We were small and scattered, connected more by the bonds we created than by the ones we inherited.

Sometimes I wish I’d heard more of those stories. The ones that give you a sense of belonging before you even understand your name. The ones that tell you why you carry your grandfather’s shoulders or your grandmother’s laugh. The ones that whisper where the strength in your spirit comes from.

But the absence of those stories did something else — it gave me a sense of responsibility. It made me realize that legacy has to start somewhere. And sometimes, that starting point is you.

When Silence Becomes a Beginning

Family Stories Month invites us to remember, but for many of us, memory doesn’t come through family heirlooms or photo albums passed from hand to hand. Sometimes, it begins in silence — in the spaces where no one told us much, and we had to build our understanding of self through what we lived rather than what we heard.

This is not uncommon in Black families. Displacement, migration, and survival have shaped the way we pass down our truths. My mother’s decision to leave home for a better life was both a breaking and a building. It meant our family tree grew in new soil, far from the stories that could’ve told me where its roots were buried.

And yet, even in that disconnection, there were hints of legacy. The way my mother prayed out loud before we ate. The way she folded her hands when she worried. The way she kept moving forward, even when it was clear she was tired. Those were her stories, unspoken ones told through action, not words.

As I grew older and began my own journey as a father, I realized that those silences still speak. And they ask us to fill them, to become the storytellers we once wished for.

Fathers as Carriers of Untold Histories

When I think about fatherhood, I often reflect on how men hold stories. We tuck them away in the corners of our memory, sometimes out of pride, other times out of pain. Many of us were raised to believe that talking about our struggles was a sign of weakness, so our stories stayed hidden behind long workdays, quiet dinners, and half-smiles that told only part of the truth.

I’ve learned through Fathers Incorporated (FI), however, that storytelling is one of the most powerful tools a father has. When a man begins to speak — not preach, not instruct, but share — something shifts. You can almost see the weight lift from his shoulders. You can see his children looking at him differently, realizing that the man they thought was made of certainty is really made of courage.

I’ve watched fathers in our programs stand up and tell their stories for the first time. Stories about absence, about learning how to love, about the fear of not being enough. And what happens in those moments is transformational. You see healing move through the room like air as men realize their stories don’t make them weak; they make them real.

That’s what legacy looks like when you strip it down to its essence. Not buildings or bank accounts, but a father telling his child, This is who I am. This is what I’ve survived. This is what I hope you’ll carry forward.

When Storytelling Heals What Silence Broke

In many families, silence was a form of protection. We didn’t always share our stories because the truth was heavy. We didn’t want our children to feel the weight of what we carried.

The thing about silence, however, is that it doesn’t protect; it isolates. It builds walls where bridges should be, and I’ve seen those walls crumble when storytelling enters the room.

In our Gentle Warriors Academy sessions, men talk about their fathers — how they were present but distant, loving but stern, providers but not always nurturers. In those stories, you hear both hurt and hope. Because even when their fathers fell short, these men still longed to understand them. They wanted the story behind the silence.

When I became a father, I wanted my children to know the whole of me — the struggles, the lessons, the flaws, and the triumphs. I didn’t want them to grow up wondering why I worked the way I did or why I believed what I believed. And yet, even I find it easier to tell stories about my work than about my lineage. They see my life unfold publicly through books, speeches, podcasts, and projects. But the more intimate family narratives — who my grandparents were, what shaped my mother, what I’ve learned from loss — those are still stories I’m learning to tell.

Maybe that’s the invitation of Family Stories Month: to make storytelling an intentional practice. Not something that happens when nostalgia strikes, but something woven into the rhythm of family life, something that heals.

Our Stories as Cultural Preservation

For Black families, storytelling has always been an act of resistance. Long before we were allowed to read or write, we passed our truths through word of mouth. Around fires, in fields, in kitchens, in pews. We kept memory alive by speaking it.

The danger of modern life is that we’ve become so distracted by speed and spectacle that we forget to remember. Our stories risk disappearing in the noise. Social media captures moments, but not meaning. We scroll through highlights of our lives without context, without continuity.

But our stories deserve more than posts and captions. They deserve preservation. The story of how your grandfather met your grandmother. The story of how your parents built a life from scratch. The story of your first heartbreak. Your first victory. Your first moment of self-belief.

Every story is a cultural artifact. Every retelling is a reclamation. When we tell our stories, we remind the world that we are more than statistics. We are more than the narratives written about us. We are our own historians.

That’s why I believe storytelling belongs in classrooms, living rooms, and community spaces. It should be as common as prayer before a meal. It keeps us accountable to the truth of who we are and the beauty of how we’ve endured.

Technology as the New Story Circle

Today, our storytelling tools look different, but the purpose remains the same. A smartphone can now hold a family’s legacy. A podcast episode can preserve the wisdom of a generation. A video message can become an heirloom for children yet to be born.

I encourage families to record their elders. Ask them about their first job, their biggest fear, their proudest moment. Save those recordings. Transcribe them. Print them. Build digital archives your children can access long after you’re gone.

When I think about what we’ve built at FI — the I Am Dad Podcast, Poppa University, the stories that emerge from our trainings — I realize we’re archiving more than content. We’re documenting the heartbeat of fatherhood in real time. We’re capturing men redefining what it means to be present, loving, and responsible. That’s cultural preservation in its truest sense.

We can’t afford for those stories to vanish. If they do, future generations won’t know how hard we fought to build this new understanding of fatherhood.

Legacy Begins with Intention

For those of us who didn’t grow up with a chorus of family stories, it can feel daunting to start. But legacy isn’t about what you inherit; it’s about what you create. The first step is deciding that your story matters. The next step is telling it.

Start simple. Write one page about your childhood. Record one voice note about a lesson life taught you. Share one story at the dinner table about the day you almost gave up but didn’t. That’s how legacy begins — in small acts of honesty.

I often tell fathers that our children don’t need us to be perfect; they need us to be real. They need our laughter, our scars, our faith, our failures. Because those are the ingredients of resilience, the stories that remind them they’re part of something larger than themselves.

When I look at my own children, I hope they see more than my accomplishments. I hope they see the man who kept building even when he was tired, the man who loved deeply, the man who found purpose in helping others do the same. That’s my story. And if I tell it right, it becomes their inheritance.

Passing the Mic to the Next Generation

The beauty of storytelling is that it doesn’t belong to one generation. It’s a relay. Every story told invites another story in response.

I’ve seen young people transform when they’re given space to share their truth. They start to see their lives not as random events, but as part of a greater unfolding. They recognize patterns of strength that existed long before they were born.

This is why family storytelling matters. It’s not just about nostalgia. It’s about continuity. It’s about preparing the next generation to carry the torch. So ask your children questions that make them think. Tell them about your first heartbreak or your hardest lesson. Show them that vulnerability is strength. When they understand your story, they’re better equipped to write their own with purpose.

Where the Story Begins Again

National Family Stories Month challenges us to start telling what hasn’t been told, to turn memory into movement.

For those like me, who didn’t grow up with rich circles of storytelling, this is your time. Be the first storyteller in your lineage. Be the one who decides your family’s narrative will not fade into silence.

You don’t need to know every name in your family tree to start. You only need to know your own story and have the courage to share it. When you do, you begin a ripple that touches generations you’ll never meet.

Our stories are not just reflections of where we’ve been but blueprints for where we can go. Every word we speak, every truth we write, every lesson we pass down becomes part of the architecture of our family’s future.

A Closing Reflection

When I think back on the stories my family didn’t tell, I no longer feel loss. I feel invitation. Maybe the silence wasn’t emptiness but a space waiting to be filled. Maybe the absence of those stories was a way of saying, You will be the one to begin.

So this November, I’ll start where I am. I’ll tell my children what I know, what I’ve learned, and what I still hope to understand. I’ll remind them that our story began in perseverance, not perfection.

That, to me, is what National Family Stories Month is really about: not just remembering the past, but authoring the present… not just celebrating what we’ve inherited, but creating what we want to leave behind.

The greatest story any of us can tell is the one that begins with us and continues long after we’re gone. Our stories are our strength. Our storytelling is our legacy. And our legacy begins today.