(feels like a refined version of your vlog — deeply personal, emotionally honest, but still grounded in spoken rhythm)
As I sit here coloring in some music, I find myself reflecting on life, family, and the people who’ve shaped me. Over time, I’ve realized that speaking freely — even if it comes out rambling — helps me process things. Later, I can turn those words into something clearer, something that helps me understand myself better.
Today, I want to talk about my stepdad, Paul — or as I call him, “Papa Paul.” I always thought that name came later in life, something I started using as an adult to show affection or respect. Maybe I hoped it would make him feel appreciated. But it never seemed to have any effect.
Still, I want to start by saying this: Paul, I do love you. And I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I respect the way you’ve taken care of my mother. That alone means a lot. You’ve always been stable, dependable, responsible — and I’m grateful for that.
You’ve had a huge influence on my life, probably more than anyone else. You’re the most influential man I’ve ever known. And that’s not exaggeration — most fathers are. I’ve always believed it takes a man to raise a man, and in many ways, you did that for me. My mom did the best she could, but a father’s role carries its own kind of weight.
But there are things I’ve held in for a long time — things I need to say, not out of anger, but for the sake of honesty and peace.
You are a good man — mature, steady, and disciplined. You weren’t abusive or cruel. But what was missing was warmth. There was a lack of emotional connection — a quiet absence that left its own kind of mark.
I don’t blame you for it. You once told me your father — a World War II veteran — was distant too. That generation carried a lot of pain they couldn’t express. They raised their sons to be strong, silent, and unfeeling. And that silence passed down to you — and through you, to me.
It makes sense now why I became so influenced by your example. You taught by how you lived — through stoicism, control, and independence. But those same qualities that create strength can also create distance.
Having an emotionally distant father figure wasn’t something I fully understood until later. It wasn’t all bad. You didn’t pressure me, and you didn’t control me. But you also didn’t seem to care much, at least not in ways I could feel.
Even now, as an adult, that hasn’t changed. You’ve never really come and sat next to me just to talk, or to share time. When I lived with you, you never came into my room to play a game, or ask how I was doing. And now that I live alone, you’ve never visited me just to spend time together.
That absence speaks volumes.
You are a good man — but you were a poor father. Not out of malice, but because you simply didn’t want the role. And that might’ve been fine if you hadn’t taken on a family with kids who needed one. You married a woman with children who needed a father — and then didn’t become one.
That’s the truth I’ve had to accept.
It’s okay not to want kids. But if you step into their lives, you carry a responsibility you can’t halfway fulfill.
And it hurts to admit this, but I’ve never truly felt wanted. Not by you, not by many people. Now I see where that comes from. You didn’t reject me outright — you just never reached for me.
I used to think it was just personality differences, or separate interests. But being a parent means more than that — it means making your children’s lives better than your own, and showing them they’re loved.
Ironically, I tried to follow your example. I married a woman with kids, thinking that was noble. I thought you had shown me something good. But in hindsight, I see that your example also taught me neglect — not intentionally, but by omission.
You did teach me to be strong and self-reliant. You taught me to survive. But you also taught me, without meaning to, that love was optional — that emotions were secondary to survival. And that’s where you were wrong.
Because being a man isn’t just about endurance. It’s about love. It’s about nurturing and showing up.
You weren’t abusive — you were simply absent in the most subtle way possible. That kind of absence is quiet, but it shapes a person all the same.
For years, I thought you were flawless. So when something felt wrong, I assumed it must be me. But it wasn’t. I am, in part, a reflection of how I was treated.
And if you leave someone alone long enough, emotionally, they start to live that way — alone. 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’ve wasted my life chasing love that never existed in the first place.
I even married someone who mirrored that same emptiness — someone who showed me what I had never healed in myself.
But I don’t write this out of bitterness. I write this because I need to understand. I need to name what’s true.
Maybe by understanding you, I can understand myself.
Maybe by breaking the silence, I can finally begin to heal from it.
(reads like a modern personal essay — elegant, flowing, emotionally intelligent, and suitable for an online publication or essay collection)
As I sit at my piano, filling the spaces between chords with color and thought, I find myself drifting back — to childhood, to family, to the quiet distances that shaped me.
I’ve learned that when I speak freely, even imperfectly, truth tends to find its way out. Later, I can shape it into something clearer. But for now, this truth belongs to you, Paul — my stepfather, my “Papa Paul,” as I once called you, hoping the name might soften something in the air between us. It never did.
Still, I love you. And I want to begin there.
You have done much for me and even more for my mother. You’ve given her stability and care — and that alone is something I’ll always respect. You’ve been a steady man, grounded, disciplined, and practical. In many ways, you embodied everything the world tells men they should be.
But love is more than discipline. And fatherhood is more than stability.
You were the most influential man in my life — not because of what you said, but because of what you didn’t. You taught me by example: to stay composed, to keep my emotions buried beneath reason and restraint. You taught me to be strong. But you also taught me to be silent.
Your generation was raised by war — by men who returned home carrying the weight of what they couldn’t speak about. Those fathers raised sons who inherited their silence, mistaking numbness for strength. You were one of them. And I became one of yours.
You weren’t cruel. You weren’t violent. You were simply distant — and that kind of distance leaves marks no one can see.
You never came to sit beside me. Not once.
Not in my room when I was a boy.
Not now, in my home as a man.
You never asked to know who I was becoming. You never sought to meet me where I lived — in my world, in my heart, in my music.
And yet, somehow, your absence filled everything.
You are a good man, but you were a poor father. Not because you did harm, but because you withheld the one thing I needed most: connection. And that would’ve been fine, maybe, if you had chosen a life without children. But you didn’t. You chose my mother — and by choosing her, you chose us. Whether you meant to or not.
It’s all right not to want children. But when you take on a family, you take on their hunger for love, for guidance, for belonging. To ignore that hunger is to let it starve quietly, until the silence becomes its own inheritance.
And that’s what I inherited from you — silence.
It took me years to understand that I wasn’t simply “unwanted.” I was unacknowledged. Not rejected, but never truly seen. The love was conditional, practical, efficient — but never personal.
For a long time, I thought it was just me. I thought if I became successful enough, good enough, strong enough — you might finally want to know me. But affection never came. And so, I learned to live without it.
I repeated your pattern. I married someone broken in familiar ways, hoping to fix in her what I could never fix in myself. And in the end, I learned what you must have learned too: that you can’t love through absence.
You taught me resilience, yes. You taught me how to stand, how to endure, how to survive. But you didn’t teach me how to love. And for that, I had to learn through loss.
Still, I don’t write this with resentment. I write this because I want to understand you — and, through you, myself.
Maybe you did the best you could with what you had. Maybe you loved in the only way you knew how.
But the silence between us — the one we both inherited — has gone on long enough.
And so I write this not to accuse you, but to break the pattern.
To speak where you could not.
To love where you did not.
To say, at last, what should have been said all along:
I love you.
I forgive you.
And I’m learning, finally, to do what you never did — to let someone in.