Breaking the Cycle: The Struggle to Be the Father and Husband I Want to Be

Today wasn’t a bad day—not really. We went to church as a family. Afterward, I took the kids to a buddy’s house for burgers and swimming. My wife stayed home with a migraine, and I wanted her to rest in peace and quiet.

The kids had a blast with their friends. There were a few moments—normal sibling squabbles—that needed my attention. I handled them calmly. I kept my cool because we were guests in someone else’s home, and I knew losing my temper wouldn’t help anything. That might not sound like much, but for me, it was a small victory. A reminder that I can control my emotions when I have to. But it’s not easy. It takes everything I have sometimes. And it’s exhausting.

By the time we drove home, I was tired but still holding it together. I reminded the kids not to disturb Mom and to take showers as soon as we got in the house. Clear instructions. No surprises.

But the moment I pulled into the driveway, something shifted. I felt it rise in my chest—frustration, sharp and immediate. And this time, I didn’t stop it. I let it take over.

I sat on the couch in our bedroom next to my wife and started telling her about the afternoon. Not five minutes later, from across the house, my daughter yelled, “I need a towel!”

That was it. That one sentence cracked the dam wide open. I snapped. Threw my phone on the bed. Stormed across the house and yelled at her. I acted like she was some manipulative adult who planned to interrupt us just to get someone else to do something for her. But she’s 11. She forgot to grab a towel. It wasn’t personal. It wasn’t an attack. It was just a kid being a kid.

When I came back to the room, my wife gave me the look. The one I get when I’ve stepped back into being the man I’ve worked so hard not to be.

She calmly asked, “What’s the problem?”

I answered honestly, “I’ve had enough of the kids’ crap today. I’m tired of the constant bickering and being in the middle of it. I’m just done.”

I was angry. And I didn’t know why.

She asked, “Do you really think she forgot the towel on purpose?”

I said yes. I told her it felt intentional—because I’ve had to get that girl a towel too many times before. And when someone is told to take a shower, doesn’t it just make sense that they’d grab a towel first?

But she didn’t argue with me. She just kept being patient, even while I dug my heels in deeper, fully convinced that my anger was justified. I refused to admit that I was projecting all of my feelings and frustrations onto an 11-year-old who had no idea she had triggered a wound I didn’t even know was still bleeding.

In that moment, I wasn’t fathering. I was reacting. I had slipped into an old mindset I’ve fought to escape for years.

I grew up in a house where anger ruled. I walked on eggshells. Lived in fear of my parents. I never knew when the next beating was coming—only that it was coming. Sometimes for something I did. Sometimes for something I didn’t do. Sometimes just for being in the room when something went wrong. The message was clear: don’t be seen, don’t be heard, don’t inconvenience anyone. If you did, it was considered an act of defiance. And punishment was swift, and often violent.

Back then, I didn’t know any better. I just assumed that was how families worked. What parent would raise their kids the wrong way?

It wasn’t until a few years ago that I began to realize I didn’t want my kids to have the same relationship with me that I have with mine. I didn’t want them to feel fear when they heard my footsteps. I didn’t want them to flinch at my voice. I didn’t want them to dread being around me when I was tired or overwhelmed.

And my wife, with all her grace and grit, asked me the question that stopped me in my tracks:

“Do you want to be the reason our kids have to go to therapy later?”

The truth is—I’m already in therapy. And I spend more time working through childhood trauma than combat trauma. That says something.

So here I am—flawed, learning, failing, trying again. I don’t share this because I’ve figured it all out. I share it because I haven’t. Because I’m still in the thick of it. Because I wasn’t taught how to be a good husband or dad—it’s been a journey of unlearning and relearning. It’s something I’m choosing—every day.

I am not my past. But my past is part of me. And if I don’t face it, it will quietly bleed into my parenting, my marriage, my legacy.

I don’t want to pass down pain disguised as discipline. I want to raise my kids with love and consistency—not fear.

As we prepare for this next chapter—a mission trip that will take us far from what’s familiar—I find myself hoping it will do more than stretch our faith or deepen our service. I hope it shapes me. I hope God uses it to continue pruning the parts of me that still cling to old habits. I hope it grows me into the kind of man my wife deserves and the kind of father my kids can look up to. A man who loves Jesus out loud. A man whose words, actions, and heart all point in the same direction. A man whose legacy is love—not fear.

God’s not finished with me yet. And that gives me hope.

Becoming the man I was never shown how to be—but by God’s grace, I’m getting there.
“Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind.”
— Romans 12:2
— Calen