About My Fathers

Absolutely. Below is your transcript transformed into a coherent, emotionally honest essay — keeping your authentic voice and tone intact while making it flow smoothly as a piece of reflective writing. It reads like a personal letter blended with a therapeutic reflection:

personal letter blended with a therapeutic reflection

A Letter to My Stepdad: Reflections on Fatherhood and Emotional Distance

As I sit here coloring in some music, I find myself thinking about life, family, and the people who’ve shaped me. Over time, I’ve found that speaking freely in these video blogs helps me get my thoughts out — unfiltered and honest. Later, I can turn them into essays like this one.

Today, I want to talk about my stepdad, Paul — or as I affectionately call him, “Papa Paul.” I always thought that nickname came later in life, something I adopted as an adult, maybe as a small gesture of affection or respect. Maybe I hoped it would flatter him a little — a sign that I thought of him fondly. But it never seemed to have any effect.

Still, I want to begin by saying this: Paul, I do love you, and I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I deeply respect the way you take care of my mother. That alone is something commendable and worthy of gratitude. You’ve always been steady, responsible, and dependable — qualities that are not small things. Thank you for that.

You’ve had a tremendous impact on my life — perhaps more than anyone else. You are, without exaggeration, the most influential man I’ve ever known. Most fathers are. I’ve always believed it takes a man to raise a man, and in many ways, you did that for me — at least in the practical sense. My mother did the absolute best she could, but the father’s role is different, and it carries its own kind of weight.

Still, I have to be honest. There are some things I’ve carried quietly for a long time — things I need to say, if not for you, then for my own peace of mind. This isn’t about blame; it’s about understanding.

You are, without question, a good man — stable, intelligent, hardworking, and self-disciplined. You weren’t an abuser, you weren’t cruel, you weren’t negligent in the physical sense. But what you lacked, and what I most needed, was warmth. You were emotionally distant. There was a profound absence of connection, affection, or engagement — the kind that shapes a child’s sense of worth and belonging.

I know that wasn’t entirely your fault. You once told me that your father — a World War II veteran — was emotionally unavailable too. That generation of men carried deep wounds they never spoke of. They were trained to suppress emotion, to see vulnerability as weakness, and they passed that silence down like an heirloom. You were raised by that silence, and so was I.

It shouldn’t surprise me, then, that I became so deeply influenced by you. You taught by example — and your example was stoicism, self-reliance, and emotional restraint. Those qualities can build strength, but they can also build walls.

Having an emotionally distant father figure left its mark. It wasn’t all bad — you didn’t pressure me, and you didn’t try to control me — but you also didn’t really seem to care. That’s how it felt, growing up.

Even as an adult, that feeling has never quite left. You’ve never once come and sat next to me just to talk or spend time. When I lived with you, you never came into my room to hang out, play a game, or show interest in what I was doing. Now, as an adult living on my own, you’ve never visited me just to be with me. You’ve never sat across from me as a father would, wanting to know who I’ve become.

And that absence says everything.

You are a good man — but you were a terrible father. I don’t say that with anger anymore; I say it with sadness and truth. It wouldn’t have mattered so much if you’d chosen a life without children. But you did have a son, and you married a woman with children who needed a father.

You had an opportunity to fill that role — and you didn’t. That was your great mistake. Not a sin, not cruelty — just a failure of presence.

It’s okay not to want children. But if you marry someone with kids, you inherit a sacred responsibility. You can’t half-fulfill it and call it enough.

I understand now why I’ve spent so much of my life feeling unwanted. The absence of love has a way of echoing through generations. It took me years to see it clearly: I was never made to feel chosen. And now, as an adult, that dynamic still exists. You don’t reach out. You don’t seem to want to know me.

For a long time, I told myself it was just a difference in personality or interests. But that’s not the truth. A parent’s responsibility — their sacred duty — is to make their children’s lives better than their own. That’s what love does.

Ironically, I once tried to emulate you. I married a woman with children, thinking it was noble — following in your footsteps. I thought you’d modeled something honorable. But in hindsight, I see that you neglected me deeply, even if you never meant to.

You did teach me something, though. You taught me to be self-sufficient, to survive, to “be a man.” You taught me that men take care of themselves and endure. But you were wrong about one thing: being a man isn’t about stoicism or independence — it’s about love, about nurturing those who depend on you, and creating an environment where they feel safe and valued.

It could have been worse — you could have been cruel or abusive. But emotional neglect is quieter and more insidious. It leaves a person questioning their own worth, wondering if love is something they have to earn.

For years, I thought you were nearly flawless — so when things hurt, I assumed it must be my fault. But it wasn’t. I am a reflection of how I was treated.

When you leave someone emotionally alone long enough, they stop trusting people. They stop believing in love. They develop a deep sense of isolation that follows them into adulthood.

That’s what happened to me.
I don’t trust people.
I struggle with relationships.
I don’t feel wanted.
And sometimes, I feel like I wasted my life chasing the love I never received as a child.

I even married someone who mirrored my own damage — someone who, in the end, reflected back the pain I had carried for years.

Still, I don’t write this out of resentment. I write this because I need to name what’s true. Because maybe, in understanding you, I can better understand myself. Maybe by breaking the silence, I can finally start to heal from it.

All right, video blog time. As I, um, color in some music, I’m working on this piece right now.

I’ve found a good system to get my thoughts down in these video blogs — kind of in an open, rambling format — and then later I can take the transcript, run it through AI, and make a more concise essay about it.

So, I have a lot to talk about. I have a lot of work to do.

I want to talk about my feelings about Paul — my stepdad — who I affectionately call “Papa Paul,” which I thought I only started calling him that as an adult. I thought maybe it would flatter him a little bit, that I think of him like that.

It had no effect.

So, uh… dear Paul,

I want to first and foremost tell you that I do love you and I appreciate everything that you’ve done for me in my life. And I deeply respect and value how well you take care of my mother. That is respectable and commendable, and I say thank you for that.

Thank you for all of the help you’ve given me over the years.

I just wanted to tell you how much of an impact you’ve had on my life. You are probably the single most influential man in my life — and that’s not an overstatement. Because, in almost all settings, most fathers are the most influential person in a son’s life. I believe it takes a man to raise a man.

Mothers have their own role, and my mom did the absolute best job she could have, given the circumstances.

However, I have a couple of critiques about your job as a parent, and ultimately the impact that’s had on me.

I think it’s important for me to document this for posterity, or for whoever — if anyone gives a damn.

I really appreciate and admire that you’re so mature and steady and stable.

Thank God you weren’t a drug addict or an abuser — it could have been a lot worse. Because really, your only problem was a rather profound lack of emotional attachment, or emotional warmth.

And I don’t in any way blame you, as I believe you even told me yourself that your behavior is a product of your own upbringing — your own father, who of course was a World War II veteran. I think that’s a classic stereotype, even of boomers, because they were so damaged by the war that they couldn’t talk about it or express their feelings. They raised an entire generation of men who didn’t express feelings in a normal, healthy way.

So if you are the result of your father, then it really shouldn’t come as any surprise that I’ve been so deeply and profoundly influenced by you.

That said, I’d like to talk about the impact of having an emotionally distant father figure in my life.

It wasn’t all bad — you didn’t pressure me to do anything — but you also didn’t really seem to care. At least, that’s the impression I always had growing up.

And now, as an adult, it’s crystal clear that you just don’t really care about me that much.

I say that based on the evidence that you have never once come and sat next to me — ever — in my life. When I lived with you, you never once came and sat in my room to play a video game or just hang out. And now, as I live alone, you have never once visited me by yourself, sat down with me, and spent time with me in that sort of way.

What this reflects is that, even though you’re a good man, I’m sorry to say this — you were a terrible father.

And that wouldn’t necessarily be such a bad thing if you had chosen not to have kids — which, of course, you did have one son of your own. Yet I’ve never once heard you say anything even remotely positive about your son’s mother, whom you only ever expressed extreme contempt for.

So, in a seemingly otherwise flawless man with no apparent problems, your only real problem was that you didn’t want children.

And you know, that’s some people’s prerogative — to not have children — and then you can live a life of selfishness, take care of yourself and your wife, and do whatever it is you want to do.

But the biggest mistake you made in your life was choosing a woman who had children who needed a father — and then not fulfilling that father role. That was profoundly messed up.

If you marry a woman who has kids, you are absolutely obliged to fill that role.

And it’s clear you didn’t want kids, because you didn’t have any with my mom.

It’s okay not to want kids — but if you have them, you are obligated to take care of them.

And it makes me really sad that I’ve never, in my entire life, truly felt wanted.

At least now I have a greater understanding of why that is, and why I feel like that — because it’s objectively true. Especially now, as an adult, you don’t want to spend any time with me. You have no interest.

I always thought it was just a difference of interests or personalities, but a parent’s primary objective should be to make their children’s lives better than their own, in every possible way.

That was my objective in life. And when I say “influenced,” I mean that I chose to marry a woman who also had kids, because I thought you did such a great and noble thing marrying my mom, who had kids.

But now, looking back, I see that you neglected me severely.

In doing so, though, you did teach me an important lesson — that lesson being: take care of yourself, be a man, take care of yourself, because that’s what your father did, and that’s what men do.

But you were profoundly wrong. Because a man’s real job is to love and nurture his children and try to make their lives as good as possible.

And while I’m grateful — it could have been a lot worse; you could have been an abuser or something outwardly wrong that’s easy to point out — instead, it was more insidious. Because I always thought you were almost flawless to a fault. So then I thought, “If it’s not him, it must be me.”

But I am a product of how you treated me.

And if you leave someone completely on their own, this is what ends up happening — what did end up happening:

I don’t trust people.

I don’t have any healthy relationships in my life.

I don’t feel wanted.

I feel like I completely wasted my life.

I married someone just like myself — a complete monster — who ended up ruining my life.

Okay… just lost what I was doing.

What color is G?

All right, I guess that’s good for now.